The Pigeon
by stress
Summary: COMPLETE -- Sequel to The Sparrow & The Lark -- He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong. When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal, David realizes that there has always been more at stake.
1. In Which Eyes Conceal and Convey

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

She didn't start running until she reached the front stoop.

Up until then she'd been quite certain that her façade hadn't crumbled, that no one had managed to penetrate her defenses and discover the truth she kept hidden away. With a phony smile, overshadowing the beating heart that threatened to jump out of her chest at any moment, she approached the mouth of the alley with a confident air.

The confidence lasted just as long as it took her to grab two fistfuls of her long, patched skirt, lift the hem up so she didn't trip, and hop up from the flagstones that lined Bottle Alley to the short step in front of the thin, wooden door.

Having just enough time to glance at one thing before her instincts took over and her legs started pumping, her dark blue eyes were drawn to a point far above her head. The familiar hand-painted sign was a welcome sight, and she spared a small sigh of relief to see that it was still a bright spot in an otherwise terrible area. The pink had faded some, the white touched with a hint of grey, but that was all right. Besides, it had been quite awhile since her feet had brought her this way.

Those feet were certainly earning their keep now.

She knew the boys couldn't see her, as separated by the crowd as they were, but her hurried flight was partly inspired by a pair of naïve yet innocent blue eyes she could feel watching her every move. Praying he hadn't been foolish enough to try and follow her, she subconsciously made the decision to run. It was her first response to any situation; she was only partly surprised that she'd kept her feet planted on the road for as long as she had.

Unable to stop her thoughts from lingering on him for a moment longer, she felt her smile waver until the corners of her mouth had turned down into a solid frown. Like every time she thought of him and how much she was lying—how much there was she wasn't telling him—she felt that strange twinge in her stomach. Guilt, she figured it was, and she didn't like it.

But what else could she do?

It wasn't supposed to be like this…

Despite the worn and flimsy material clutched between her fingers, the door opened easily when she turned the knob. It hadn't been locked, and she was grateful that the old matron was either too trusting or a bit daft. Already running, she didn't have time to be slowed by a closed door.

It was Sunday, the Sabbath, and many of the local factories were closed. There were girls everywhere inside, girls of all sorts and professions, crowding the front room, finding ways to busy themselves before the start of another work day. Many of them stared, some curious and a few scandalized, but none stopped her as she ran through the Home. Teller was known by most of the girls, at least by sight—if they knew anything about the Sparrow, then they knew better than to cross her.

One girl, as vain as she was conniving and curious, hadn't moved; Teller just barely dodged the blonde as she ran through the narrow hall. The staircase in front of her, she was so consumed with making it up the stairs that she barely noticed the purse of Rosamund's lips or the echo of her heeled shoes slowly following behind her.

She stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. For one of the first times in recent days she was at a loss for what direction to take next. If she was Meggie Dryer, where would she be?

Snapping her fingers in a sudden flash of inspiration, Teller ran again. She didn't stop on that floor, choosing to climb up one more flight before going past two closed doors and knocking abruptly on the third. Without

waiting for an answer she took it upon herself to open the door; like the one out front, it wasn't locked. Opening it carefully, she slipped inside before pulling it closed behind her.

It was one of the many lodging quarters in the boardinghouse. Four double beds—eight bunks—made the room even more cramped than it should be but, luckily for her and her purposes, not all of them were occupied. Only three of them were and Teller recognized them as some of the older girls who had yet to snag a husband and move out of the Home. They'd been on the streets longer than most but they kept their pride and they kept their independence, no matter how hard it got.

Teller admired them—but she envied them a little, too.

Meggie with her dark, messy hair was standing between two of the bunks, the center of all of their attention. Singing a soft melody only loud enough for her small audience to hear, she didn't acknowledge—or maybe even notice—Teller's presence immediately.

The music captivated Meggie even more than those who heard the beautiful sound. Gently caressing a fading purple scar—it was uglier, Teller noticed, than when she saw it last, all scabbed and bloody and torn—that traveled the length and width of her throat, she was oblivious to the world around her. The song was her soul, on display for all to see. A dreamy look in her eyes, a hint of a pleasurable grin splitting her lips, the Songbird sang for herself alone.

It was only when the verse was done and the girls had started to applaud that she turned her narrow and shrewd gaze on Teller. The queer look was gone, leaving only suspicion and checked amusement at the other girl's unexpected arrival.

"Well," she said in a drawl as deceptively sweet as her singing voice, "it's been awhile and you… you've certainly looked better."

Still slightly out of breath from her sprint, and choosing to ignore Meggie's remark for now, Teller nodded at her. "Meggie."

"Teller," the dark-haired girl greeted in response.

"You busy?" she asked. It wasn't like her to beat around the bush and Meggie knew it. Pleasantries were nice enough but there was no time to waste. "I gotta talk to ya."

She didn't say anything straight away. Searching Teller's overly powdered face, taking note of the dark bruise barely hidden beneath, Meggie was looking for something. When she found it she gripped Teller's arm with her tiny hand. "Alright. But come with me first."

Teller didn't ask where; she had a pretty good idea what was going on in Meggie's head. It might've been some time since she turned to the other girl for help but there was no doubt in her mind that it was a much better move than following Jack Kelly's _brilliant _plan blindly. It was bad enough Racetrack Higgins had managed to bring Meggie into this—now she had no choice but to appeal to her old friend. Past debts or not.

Meggie didn't relax her hold on Teller as she wordlessly led them through the bunkroom. Teller had closed the door behind her; Meggie opened it swiftly and, in the process, nearly collided with Rosamund.

Rosamund's mouth—perfectly trained as it was—was poised to assume a pleasing grin but it faltered when she saw that Teller was with Meggie. As if she'd been burned, she took a hurried step away from the door keeping a wide berth between her and the dark haired girl.

Meggie looked past her, tugging gently on Teller's arm. "This way," she said clearly before adding, "so we can have some privacy."

She led her back down one flight of stairs before steering her in the direction of another door. It was a room Teller was familiar with but had barely entered herself; when Meggie shut the door to the cramped, dusty library behind them, Teller silently applauded Meggie's foresight. No one entered the small, musty room if they could help it.

Teller didn't have long to marvel for long. Folding her legs under her long black skirt, Meggie sank down to the floor. Once she was comfortable, she asked, "What brings you this way, Teller? I thought I made it perfectly clear when I left that I wanted nothin' more to do with the lot of you'se."

Still standing—she'd had enough of sitting on cold, dusty floors for awhile—Teller shrugged her shoulders. "I know, but I had to. And it wasn't exactly my choice."

"Whose choice was it then?"

Teller was ready for that. "Well, let's see… Racetrack Higgins mentioned ya first, and Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly decided to ask ya some questions," she said, ticking each name off with a finger. "And David, too, he thinks he can turn to you for help… oh, and I can't forget about the damn Sparrow. If it weren't for him bein' so cocky and so greedy, none of us would be in this mess."

"The Sparrow," Meggie snapped, her beautiful voice taut with bitterness. "Couldn't you ever come see me without him sendin' you?"

Teller blanched. The Sparrow was obviously not one of Meggie's favorite people but time hard turned her hard; she hadn't expected her to react that way to his name. Recovering quickly, she countered with, "He didn't send me, weren't ya listenin'? It's what he's done that led me back to Bottle Alley."

"Yeah? And what did he do?"

Taking a deep breath, Teller did what she did best: launching into the story of Sarah Jacobs' disappearance, the Sparrow's claim to the girl and how her brother David was trying to save her, Teller told Meggie what the Sparrow had done. She made sure to mention Jack and Spot, and even Racetrack… but conveniently neglected to talk about herself.

But Meggie was swift. Her features twisted in an emotionless mask, she asked, "What does all that have to do with you, Teller?"

That was a question she couldn't answer. She didn't know how to explain—and there wasn't enough time if she even could. So, shrugging her shoulders again, she said, "It's a long story, trust me. Just know that I… I started out on the Sparrow's orders but…"

"On the other side now? Jeez, better be careful."

It didn't go by unnoticed to either of them that, at those words, Meggie's hand was back on her throat. She left it there for a moment more before letting it fall to the side, resting along the seam of her oversized black dress.

She didn't beat around the bush either.

"So what have ya come to see me for, Teller? I can't shield you from him, and I can't protect ya any more than I have. He doesn't listen to me no more. And I certainly don't answer to newsboys."

"I know. And I ain't askin' ya for all that."

There was the tiniest flicker of a disbelieving expression that crossed Meggie's face. "Then what _are_ you askin' me for?"

Teller looked everywhere but at Meggie just then. This was the real reason she'd hope to be the one to go to Bottle Alley, the only reason she didn't want David to follow her to the door. "I'd really 'ppreciate it if ya just nipped outside and had word with Kelly but… I'm askin' ya for your silence, Meggie. Ya see… I don't want them to know."

"About what?"

"About everything."

That same, strange searching look was back; narrowing her gaze, Meggie stared at Teller for a few seconds before exhaling loudly. "My silence? I can give ya that. But you'll owe me."

"I always do," Teller quipped, working hard not to give in to the urge to groan. She owed Meggie so much already that one more thing wouldn't matter; she just hoped she was long gone by the time her old friend started to call in all of her favors.

Meggie nodded in agreement. Assuming that the conversation was done now—Teller had gotten what she wanted, after all—she took a step towards the door… and paused when she noticed the other girl's hesitance.

"What?"

"There's… there's somethin' else, somethin' I wanna rub by ya. It might sound dumb but we had to draw cards to split up, right? Conlon and Race drew low and wound up together, Kelly got high and David—" She stopped there, remembering the eager look on his face when it came to revealing the cards, gave her head a quick shake and continued, "—Dave's card let him choose to come along with me. But my card… I drew the ace of spades, Meg."

"I don't think I get what you're tryin' to tell me."

"Don't ya see? It's the death card. Tryin' my damndest to go up against them all and I get the sign o' death." Teller bit her lip, any semblance of an earlier confidence vanishing with the admission. "You don't think he would… he wouldn't kill me for this, right?"

"Oh, Teller," Meggie sighed, shaking her head. "Did ya turn gypsy on me? That's just superstitious rubbish."

"Yeah, you're right. I guess."

She was partly relieved, though an irrepressible doubt still lingered. It was nice not to be so tough, to let down her guard long enough to confide in an old friend—even if Meggie was only telling her that to make her feel better. The Sparrow, they both knew firsthand, was wild… unpredictable. He was capable of absolutely anything when he felt provoked.

Or betrayed—

Teller gulped, suddenly uncomfortable. The sign of the card had been a nagging worry, tucked in the back of her mind. Now, though, now that she thought about what it might mean… was it really just silly superstition?

Before she could think about it anymore, there was a loud thudding noise just outside the closed door. It was close and unexpected enough that Teller—uncharacteristically nervy—actually jumped. It sounded like someone might've fallen against the library door; if she strained her ears, she could almost make out the muffled sounds of heeled shoes hurrying down the hall.

"What was that?"

"That?" Meggie was still calm, still unreadable. She hadn't jumped; nothing, it seemed, ever rattled her. "Probably just Rosamund again, the nosy girl. Don't pay her any attention. Maybe she'll finally go away if we ignore her long enough."

"Rosamund?" Teller's mind turned to the blonde girl she'd ran into twice since entering the Bottle Alley Home. She ran her hand down her face, groaning. "Oh, _shit_! Do ya think she heard us?"

"I wouldn't put it past her. Only last week I caught her with her ear to Cookie's room. She's got no shame, that one."

"No shame, and no pride, either! Jack is gonna kill me! And Dave? The last thing I need is for Rosamund to try to get her claws in him, the harpy."

"That's the third time I heard you mention this David fella," Meggie noted, looking down her beaky nose with something like interest for the first time. "Is there something goin' on there?"

"No. Of course not. Ya wouldn't understand." Her face flushed beneath the heavily applied powder, her manner suddenly flustered. "Look, I gotta get back out there. You'll come?"

"Yes, I'll come."

"And you won't…"

"No," Meggie said, sighing. She was honest, and she hated to lie—but she was even more loyal. "You have my word."

That was good enough for her.

Teller wanted to stay a few minutes longer but she knew she couldn't. She'd left Jack and David alone for too long now—and who knew how much Kelly knew—and she had to be getting back to them. Not to mention the fact that, if Meggie was right and that sound had come from Rosamund, she needed to hurry. She'd heard all about Rosamund's infatuation with Jack Kelly, and Jack's indifference to the beauty. It was bad enough Jack was in such a mood already—she couldn't handle any more of his moping. And David…

Shaking her head, letting her plait of light brown hair settle over her right shoulder, Teller offered Meggie one quick—and genuine—appreciated glance before leaving the room behind her.

She didn't stop running until she reached the front of the Home.

Pausing on the stoop, letting the door close finally behind her, Teller shielded her eyes against the sun and squinted over to where she had left Jack and David. Her talk with Meggie had calmed her down, quashing the guilty feelings she'd been struggling with since Saturday. With a renewed vigor in her step and Meggie's promise that she would help as much as she could, she started back across the street at a much slower pace—

—until she saw the back of a blonde head cozying up to David. A new sensation washed over her—similar to the guilt but much more potent—and she felt her hands curl up into tight fists at her side.

"Rosamund," she muttered, gritting her teeth as she glared daggers at the unwitting girl, "you nitwit."

And then, somewhat desperate to close the gap between the Bottle Alley Home for Girls and the corner where David stood with Rosamund, Teller started to run again.

It's what she did.

* * *

Author's Note: _And here it is, the third (and final) installment of this series, following both _The Sparrow_ and _The Lark_. This one is going to be a little different from the first two as you can see from this opening chapter -- instead of the opener beginning with Sarah, we see what happened behind closes doors when Teller and Meggie met up with each other on Sunday morning. This scene takes place during _The Lark_, when Jack and David are talking. Maybe this will shed a little insight on to Teller's real motives..._

_-- stress, 03.21.09 _


	2. In Which Never Becomes Now

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

I never thought I'd be hanging my hopes on a painted rock and a smart aleck kid—but I was, and I had the Sparrow to blame for that.

The Sparrow… ugh. Just the _thought_ of his name made me grit my teeth in anger.

Three full days had passed since I first encountered his sign; three long days since the first time a rock was thrown at me. I wondered: if I'd known then what would happen following that first attempt to shake me, would I have just ignored the rock? Would I have started this crazy adventure, spent the last few days looking for someone who was more of a myth than a man, if only I'd known then?

Of course.

On Friday I discovered that Sarah was gone. She left behind an open door, an envelope addressed to Jack Kelly, and a certainty deep in my gut that she was in trouble. Which she was, I discovered, and, after being assaulted with a rock, walking all the way through Midtown and meeting up with a spunky street girl who called herself Teller, I'd learned that the so-called King of the Streets, a local legend referred to as the Sparrow, was behind my sister's disappearance.

On Saturday I spent the day with Teller, going from the Midtown Lodging House—an experience in and of itself—all the way to Brooklyn in search of Jack. He was there, already making his own plans for Sarah's rescue. And, like me, he had help: Spot Conlon. Spot, the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, had a very important stake in Sarah's return. He was Sarah's beau, and eager to help me in my search—even if he didn't trust Teller one bit.

On Sunday I met up with Jack and Spot again early in the morning. Along with Teller and a very hesitant Racetrack Higgins, the five of us were split into two groups. Spot and Race went into Brooklyn, while me, Jack and Teller journeyed all over the Lower East Side in search of someone who could tell us where we could find the Sparrow. After all we went through, we ended the day with a single name: the Pigeon.

It was Monday now, and I had yet to figure out just who the Pigeon was and what part he would have to play. But, after waking up with the sun and following Jack over to the Bottle Alley Home for Newsgirls only to find that Teller had, as Jack put it, done a runner, I'd just about given up hope that I'd ever see my sister again.

And then, tossed right at our feet, there was another rock...

I never thought that help would come in such a curiously shaped package, either. The Sparrow's messenger was a younger boy, maybe a year or two older than Les. He was tall—or maybe his clothes too short for his lanky body—and he walked awkwardly as if he was just getting used to having longer legs. His derby, black and dusty, was slung low, leaving only a smirk on his dirty face.

He'd thrown the rock at me and Jack, not as a threat, but as an invitation. An invitation meant for me—an invitation to a meeting with the Sparrow.

I would have had to have been a fool to refuse.

And so, three days after I first learned that the Sparrow even _existed_, I was back where I started. I had a rock, complete with the blasted Sparrow's sign, and I was taking _another _never-ending walk to only God—and this boy who claimed to work under the Sparrow—knew where.

Before I had ditched my sense and, following a hunch, followed the Sparrow's messenger, before Jack turned his back on me and started off for Brooklyn again, I double-backed and reached down to the cobblestones. With a quick scoop and a quick, telling look in Jack's direction, I had the black rock in my hand. I'd been quite dumb to leave the first one behind; this time, I wasn't taking anything for granted.

It wasn't a large rock, and it fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. As black as coal and smooth on all sides, I had to wonder where the Sparrow had found such a nice one. It didn't look like any of the dirty, jagged stones that littered the side streets, and not just because someone had gone to the trouble of sketching a birdlike drawing on the topside in white paint.

Rubbing the tips of my fingers against the smooth edge, I had to shake my head. This was what I was reduced to: spending my time worrying about a dumb rock when I was finally on my way to meeting the Sparrow in person. Maybe that was why I was doing it, maybe that was why I was focusing on the rock instead of where I was going. How did I know for sure that that was where this boy was taking me?

I didn't. But I was going to pretend I did anyway.

The boy walked in front of me, only a few steps ahead. He did check over his shoulder a few times, making sure I was still there, but he stopped doing that after the first hour of our walk. I was very careful; I didn't want to lose him, especially since he was the one who knew where the Sparrow was.

New York City was a hustling, bustling place, complete with the noise of the people, and the blending sounds of life going on regardless of my own troubles. It made my head buzz, and I realized that, for the first time in days, I was alone. There was no Teller, no Jack, no Spot… I was really on my own.

It was up to me—me, David Jacobs—to save Sarah.

I gulped, tightening my grip on the rock.

Maybe I should have insisted on Jack coming along with me.

_No_, I thought defiantly, drawing strength from the stupid rock. _No_. I didn't have to rely on Teller or Jack or Spot—I could do this on my own. Sarah was _my _sister, after all. Just because I didn't live on the street like them, it didn't mean that I was simple, that I couldn't figure out a way to get the Sparrow to release my sister.

I could. And I would.

Feeling suddenly confident—the rush of confidence overruled the constant complaints of my aching, blistered feet; for that alone I was grateful—I increased my stride until I was standing right behind the boy. I'd been following him for a couple of hours, and it occurred to me then that, if I wanted to get some answers about the Sparrow, this boy might be the one person I'd met so far who could actually give them to me.

I'd given up on the pretense that I wasn't a curious sort of fellow. As far as the mystery of the Sparrow was concerned, I was so curious that I'd do practically anything to know what was going on.

Clearing my throat, I reached out and tapped him gently on the shoulder. He wasn't expecting the touch and, with a small jerk, he stopped walking. With reflexes as fast as a cat's, he whirled on me, his hands already balled into tight fists, lifted high in a fighting stance.

When he saw that it was just me, he lowered one of his hands; the other he lifted up even higher, flicking the brim of his derby up so that he could get a better look. "Yeah?"

This close I could see that he was even younger than I thought. The dirt did a good job covering up his youthful face, but he couldn't possibly be any older than ten. Without even meaning to, I adopted the tone of voice Mama took with Les when he wouldn't finish his supper. "I just thought, if I was going to keep following you, we should at least introduce ourselves properly."

"I know who you are, David."

"But I don't know who you are."

He thought about that for a minute. I had a point but, with him looking the part of the kid who was born and raised on the streets, I figured that using manners was probably the last thing on his mind. Scratching his nose with absolutely filthy fingernails, there was suspicion written in his dark eyes.

A mixture of pity and remorse washed over me. I don't think anyone had ever cared enough to ask him about himself before.

"They call me the Sparrow's Boy," he said at last, a daring touch of pride finding its way to his voice.

The feeling of pity worsened; I felt the beginning of a friendly smile freeze and fade away from my face. There was no way I was going to call him that. I'd had enough of nicknames as it was—especially the ones the Sparrow gave people—and I couldn't even begin to believe that anyone would be proud to be called someone's boy.

"The Sparrow's Boy?" I asked incredulously. "That's your name?"

The expression he made seemed to ask me if I was mad. "No, that ain't my name. But it's what they call me, so it's what I answer to."

I wondered who the 'they' were he kept bringing up. Assuming he was talking about the Sparrow and his little birdies, I said, "They call you that. But what do you call yourself? Don't you have a real name of your own?"

Again, he took a few moments to come up with his answer. He shrugged and, jerking his chin into the air, he said defiantly, "Me mam used to call me Georgie. But she's dead now."

"Oh."

I didn't know what to say, and it wasn't as if what he said surprised me. Plenty of the newsies I sold papers with were orphans, their parents dead or as good as.

Jack Kelly, for one, his mother had died when he was a boy—but even he never talked about her so bluntly. In fact, he continually lied about her and his convict father, telling made-up stories that they were living out West. I never would have even found out the truth if it wasn't for his arrest after the rally last summer. The warden told on him in the courtroom and Jack never denied it… but he never said it himself, especially so matter-of-factly.

I don't know if my bewildered reaction was what he was going for, or maybe he felt bad himself, but he tipped his hat forward and gave another shrug. "I won't mind if you want to call me Georgie if you let me call you Davey."

It was a strange condition, but there were plenty of people who already thought my name was Davey instead of David; it was perfectly fine with me if he wanted to, too. It was a start and, if I wanted to convince him to talk to me, being friendly was the only thing I could do. I couldn't be as persuasive or as charming as others, but I could be a conversationalist. I could use my mouth. And Georgie was a much better name than the Sparrow's Boy.

Nodding, I said, "Alright."

"Okay… _Davey_."

With a smile that was more secretive than the shark-like grin he flashed back at Bottle Alley, Georgie pulled his derby down and turned back around. He started to hurry off again and I felt my fleeting chance to get him to open up about the Sparrow disappear as he got further away.

I immediately followed him, deciding to take my chances. What was the worst that could happen? He ignored me? Even if he didn't answer me now, I'd know the answer before long. It was just my darned curiosity—and a desire to know just what I was getting myself into—that made me ask, "Where are we going?"

"It's a little place of the Boss's. Not too far off from here," Georgie answered vaguely, calling to me over his shoulder as he just missed running into a young girl carrying a basket of flowers. When he realized what he'd done, he stopped and, bending over awkwardly, he bowed before her, removing his hat for a moment before jamming it back on his head.

I guess he had more manners than I gave him credit for...

The girl flushed at his attention, hugging the basket close to her chest as she scurried past him. I had stopped, too, and she let out a small squeak as she ran by me next. I was a little disappointed to see that she was as afraid of me as Georgie, but it was to be expected, I guess.

I wasn't in lessons like I was supposed to be; I was on the street, prowling around. I hadn't had a wash in the tub since Saturday night—and I still hadn't been able to wash up today because Jack insisted I wait until later and I stupidly listened to him. My hair was probably matted and I could just kick myself for leaving my hat behind at the lodging house.

But, oh well. There was nothing I could do about it now.

Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to Georgie. I wasn't done with him. Not yet, at least. "The Boss? Is that the Sparrow?"

"Yeah, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting, right? We should really start moving a little faster so we get there soon."

"Are we almost there?"

Georgie licked his lips absently, glancing around him as if remembering exactly where we were and where he was taking me. He shrugged; it was something I've seen him do a lot. "Almost."

"And you're really taking me to see him?" I asked. "The Sparrow, I mean."

"Yup."

I decided to believe him. What other choice did I have? "Will my sister be there, too?"

"She should be. The Boss is doing his best to keep the girl all safe and sound."

Thinking about the way he looked, from his dusty clothes to the dirt that covered his face, I couldn't help but feel a little worried. I don't think the words 'safe and sound' meant the same thing to both of us.

Suddenly, out of either nerves or anticipation—or a combination of both—I picked up my pace, almost passing him by in my haste. My movement spurred him a little faster. All I wanted, right then, was to get to Sarah and check myself that she was all right.

Georgie didn't seem to mind that that was the end of our conversation. He kept to himself, occasionally mumbling something under his breath. For my part, I didn't say anything else until we arrived where we were going.

I guess it wasn't really a surprise that I hadn't recognized the path we'd taken—but I should have. Despite walking back and forth enough the last few days that the soles of my shoes were wearing down to nothing, this was a part of the city that I traveled through recently.

On Friday, to be exact.

Midtown.

Like I'd done with Teller, I had followed Georgie through most of Midtown. We hadn't passed St. Patrick's Cathedral, or walked down Madison Avenue, but I suddenly knew exactly where we were without the boy having to tell me. Like Teller, Georgie had one specific destination in mind during out trip. The same one, actually.

I never thought I'd willingly go back to the Midtown Lodging House ever again.

* * *

Author's Note: _I'm gonna keep on trucking with this. I have the next few chapters planned out, and a couple of surprises for poor David in store. If you're reading, I hope you enjoy!_

_-- stress, 04.09.09_


	3. In Which the Jacobs Siblings Reunite

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

It hadn't changed much since Teller brought me there to spend the night. It was still big, it was still foreboding, and the windows were coated with grime. The street was mainly empty, none of the local boys lingering nearby. It struck me as odd that none of the newsies sold on the corner where the House stood.

There was no sign out front marking the building but the sudden sinking of my stomach in solid recognition told me much more than any sign could. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the Midtown Lodging House that Teller had brought me to on Friday. After everything I'd gone through, and everywhere I'd been on Saturday and Sunday, I was right back where I started from.

I wasn't surprised about that, either. My luck was so bad that I wouldn't have been surprised if it turned out that _MacCauley_ was the Sparrow.

Thinking of the ill-tempered superintendent, Mac, I felt my free hand give a little nervous twitch. The last time we met I'd escaped his angry disposition only due to Alfie's help. If he hadn't spoken up for me when he had, I would've had to sleep on the street and been out of the nickel Teller graciously lent me. I wasn't too keen on the idea of crossing the overgrown man again, even if Georgie had brought me here on the Sparrow's orders.

Who's to say that MacCauley even listened to the Sparrow himself?

I followed the twitch with a rough shake. I hadn't come this far to turn back now because I was intimidated.

"So we're going in there?"

"No."

Glancing at Georgie out of the corner of my eye, I could see that, like me, he had paused before the building—but he was already walking past it.

I was confused. The moment we arrived in front of the Midtown Lodging House I was certain that this was where we'd been walking towards all morning. It was… it was inconceivable that pure dumb luck and bit of chance led us this way.

"No?" I asked, the confusion obvious in my voice.

George slowed his step. "Well, not really."

"Not really?" I was beginning to feel like a parrot, the way I was repeating everything he said, but what did 'not really' mean? Either this was our destination or not. It wasn't a very difficult question, and I was getting testy. Damn it, I didn't want to walk anymore. Where was my sister?

"The Sparrow doesn't like others knowing his business," Georgie told me, waving his hands as he talked. Not for the first time, there was something about him that reminded me of my brother, Les. "If I lead you in through the front door, there's bound to be questions and smartass remarks. It's better if we go in another way."

"Oh." I thought I understood what Georgie was saying. "You mean like a back entrance?"

"Yeah. Like that."

Feeling much more relieved and reassured at his explanation—and vindicated that my hunch about the lodging house was right—I nodded and followed him down the rest of the block. It was just like Sunday all over again, when we had to go through plenty of side streets and dark alleys to find the back entrance and hidden lodgings of a man called Grampa.

If I closed my eyes and sniffed real deep, I could still smell the moldy sheet that slapped me in the face behind the Bowery Theatre. Yet, as bad and as memorable as that was, it was still better than the stench that filled the Bottle Alley slums.

All in all, I guess I was getting used to taking the back entrances. It kept me from having to explain myself too much and it saved money when money was hard to come by. I didn't even ask Georgie any more questions as he led us to the back. When this was all said and done, I don't think I'll feel comfortable going in through the front door again for quite some time.

He led the way, with me hesitantly following behind. The back of the Midtown Lodging House looked just the same as the front—dirty, derelict and forgotten, but with an air of special care surrounding it. It was a lost building for lost boys but the boys who did find their way there, they did because they wanted to and they stayed because they couldn't imagine leaving.

But I could. All my common sense and intuition was telling me to run away from this place. I ignored them.

Georgie held up his hand when we turned the corner, stopping me—and my thoughts—in my tracks. "Wait here, Davey."

I did what he said, anxiously slipping my hands into my pockets. Resting on the balls of my sore feet, I couldn't believe that this was it. I was only a few short steps away from the place they were keeping Sarah, I was just about to meet the Sparrow…

In my excitement, I nearly stumbled, just managing to stay on my feet. I recovered nicely, steadying myself in time to see Georgie shake his head as he approached a wooden door. He knocked three times, three clear knocks that sounded throughout the alleyway, before waving me forward.

Just as I arrived at his side, the door swung inward—but there was no one waiting for us inside the open doorway.

Georgie didn't look surprised that the door opened by itself so I pretended not to be, either. Not that I could be entirely sure that someone wasn't lurking inside. The landing was dark, the only light the faint sunlight peeking out from behind the tall buildings. Squinting, I could make out a stairway that went down at the far end of the landing. To the right, there another wooden door; this one was closed, too, and I knew it had to be locked. I figured it must lead into the actual lodging house. But where did the stairs go?

I had a pretty good idea about that. Most birds keep to the sky, building their bests in the high tree branches, keeping themselves safe from any harm. The Sparrow, it seemed, preferred his sanctuary underground.

I didn't realize that I was gaping into the darkness, frozen just outside the door, until I felt a sharp jab and a quick nudge in the small of my back.

"Why don't you go on in first, Davey? I'll take the rear."

The last thing I wanted to do was enter first into dark cellar where I was basically walking blind. Especially since the cellar belonged to an enemy and the only defense I had was my back being guarded by a kid known as the Sparrow's Boy. For all I knew his friendly act could be just that: an act. At any moment he could reach out and give a shove and no one would ever know what happened to that poor oaf David Jacobs.

I could give up. I could tell Georgie I wasn't going in there and turn away. I was sure I remembered my way to Brooklyn from here, I could be back with Jack and Spot by sunset—

—and I would forever regret it if I did.

What if the Sparrow took my cowardice as an opportunity to whisk Sarah away and take flight? No. If there was any chance—any chance at all—that I could end this now, I had to do it.

"Alright," I said, gulping as I did. As dramatic as it was, I felt like I was signing my own death warrant.

I needed another nudge, another small push from Georgie to actually get me moving; it was one that he was only too happy to provide when his impatience got the better of him. Taking a deep breath, I took the first step onto the landing. It was a step higher than the dirt-covered ground outside and I could get a better look once I was in. It was just as dark but, at this angle, it was easy to see that there was a faint orange glow at the base of the steps.

At least there was some kind of light down there. I wouldn't be _that_ blind.

Every step was careful, my hand groping wildly for some sort of rail. Georgie clucked his tongue at my snail pace. Unlike me, he kept his hands to himself; the hard, rough shove I expected never came.

There was a small stub of a candle sitting on a plate to mark the last step. I was glad for it—I would have fallen for sure if it hadn't been there. The tiny flame flickering, it opened up my sight enough to get a better look at this dark, dank cellar. Casting my gaze around, I saw a petite body huddled in the far corner, their head bowed.

The window above was filthy and it kept most of the late morning shine outdoors. Still, it was enough for me to recognize the dark hair of the figure and the fan of her skirt tucked beneath her.

"Sarah?"

Her head jerked up as if it was attached to a string I had pulled. "David?"

I knew that voice. "Sarah!"

Something turned, a quick clicking noise, and suddenly I could see almost everything. A freshly lit oil lamp in her hand, Sarah was staring in disbelief across the room at me. Her hair was matted and flat, her face covered in enough dirt to make Georgie look clean. The strong oil-driven flame reflected in her brown eyes; they were glassy, but narrowed as if uncertain that I was really standing there.

A small quilt was lying rumpled beneath her as if to protect her from the floor but she had kicked much of it to the side; a bowl full of untouched porridge sat at her feet. Proud as ever, Sarah scorned the few luxuries the Sparrow offered her in her captivity.

Forgetting everything but my sister, I ran toward her. Still watching me carefully, she placed the oil lamp down and shakily got to her feet. Hurriedly, I helped her stand, subconsciously mimicking the way Jack had helped me get my balance yesterday.

She threw her arms around me, giving me such a tight hug that I almost stopped breathing for a second. I didn't care—I'd done it, after all. I got to Sarah and I was able to make sure she was okay. Well, not okay… but she would be once I got her home. I wasn't sure how exactly I was going to do that but I wasn't worried. The important part was over. And I still wanted to come face to face with the hooligan that did this to her.

Sarah held tight for a few minutes before drawing back and looking straight into my face. The dark circles under her eyes were even more noticeable than Jack's had been and I had to wonder when the last time she slept was—and that wasn't the only thing I was wondering. I had a hundred and one questions to ask her but, before I had the chance, Sarah cut me off with one of her own.

"David, what are you doing here?"

What was I doing here? What did it look like I was doing?

"I'm trying to save you!"

"But… but I sent the note for Jack," she sputtered, her eyes wild as she looked everywhere but at me, "and then he was supposed to get… to get Spot."

Despite the oil lamp being on the ground where she left it, and even under the layer of dirt on her face, I could tell that she was blushing red at the mention of Spot Conlon's name.

"He did," I said calmly, trying my best to reassure her. The last thing I needed just then was Sarah to think that no one—especially Spot—cared about coming to rescue her. "The two of them have been looking for you for days! But they didn't tell me, and I found out anyway, and now I'm on my own doing what I can to bring you back home."

"But you weren't supposed to know!" she cried, trembling all over. Her voice part-sob, part-frustration and all upset, she took a step away from me, her hands shaking violently.

"Supposed to know what?"

Sarah swallowed and, when she w answered me, her voice was thick with emotion. "You weren't supposed to know what sort of trouble I'd gotten myself into."

My heart went out to her. Here she was, held in this… this prison and she felt like it was all her fault. But it wasn't—it was the Sparrow's, and I was going to do everything I possibly could to make him pay.

Steeling my voice, I said, "Well I know now and it doesn't matter, Sarah." The words were awkward and I realized I was shaking as much as she was. I gave my head a quick nod. "What matters is that you're alright. Are you alright?"

It was as if she was in a trance. "What do you mean by alright, David?" She gave a harsh little laugh, drawing in to her chest as she took another step away. "I guess I'm alright. I'm not hurt, and he keeps me fed. But it's dark and… and he won't let me leave."

Her voice trailed off at the end, leaving me to notice how unnaturally still it was in the cellar, just how _quiet_ it was. It was off-putting, reminding me of the eerily silent night I'd spent in the bunkrooms of this lodging house.

The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up and I only just resisted the urge to slap them down in place. Ignoring that, I focused on what Sarah said. "Who won't let you leave? The Sparrow?"

With a gulp and a hesitance I've never seen from her before, Sarah reached her hand out and pointed at something over my shoulder.

In a strangled whisper, she told me, "Him."

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, after close to a hundred thousand words and quite a few stops along the way, David has finally reached Sarah. What happens next? How will David react when he meets 'him'? I guess we're going to have to wait and see ;)_

_-- stress, 04.17.09_


	4. In Which the Sparrow is Known

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

I hadn't heard the footsteps. To be honest, I hadn't even noticed that Georgie had left his place behind me to go and get his boss. If, of course, he had even followed me down the steps in the first place—it had been a little strange, walking down the steps and not getting even the smallest of nudges to make me hurry.

"Ah, David. I see you have my sign."

I'd forgotten that I was still holding onto the stupid black rock. I should've thrown it back at its master, spun around and, praying my aim was good, tossed his painted stone right back at the Sparrow.

I should have… but I didn't.

From all the times Jack told Les tales, stories of the fights he'd been in, stories about the cowboys he himself idolized out West, I'd taken away one very important lesson: it was absolutely foolish to keep your back turned on you opponent. But I couldn't help it. I was frozen at the sound of my name. And not just my name… the way it was _said_ caught my attention and kept me from turning around to face my foe.

I knew that voice. He even talked the same way when I first met him, all slow and deliberate, as if each and every word of his was so important that he had to think about what exactly it was that he was saying before he actually said it—and that, as important as it was, he wanted to make sure that everyone understood him.

Well… at least that made more sense to me now.

I didn't turn all the way around when I finally decided to face him. Swiveling my body so that I was partway between them two, I stood my ground and came face to face with—

"Alfie!"

"You're a guest of mine, David. Please… call me the Sparrow."

He stood there, just off the last step, his hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed. But it _was_ Alfie. Alfie, the boy I met on my way to Madison Avenue on Friday, the same boy who helped me find a bunk in this lodging house the night I stayed over… he was the Sparrow. Just like I had known from the voice and the carefully constructed speech, the two were one in the same.

And I was a complete idiot not to have suspected this before.

He looked different but there was no mistaking that face of the heavy-lidded stare as he watched curiously for my reaction. A smart derby, inky black and dust-free, was perched sideways on his head; his face was just as clean, as if he had freshened up before meeting me in the cellar. His clothes weren't patched or covered with holes—in fact, they appeared to be tailored to fit his lanky body perfectly. When he was the Sparrow, Alfie was a totally different person… that, or the poor, dirty street kid act of his had been that: just an act.

I had thought so before, the first time Alfie dropped his over-the-top accent for his slow and steady—and altogether too intelligent—way of talking. But I hadn't known for sure which performance was the act.

I sure did now.

There were so many things I had wanted to say to the Sparrow when I found him but, now that I had, I found myself speechless. My mouth hung there open, accusing and ashamed at the same time. The grip of my hand went slack as I froze, and the damn rock fell out; the thud when it hit was muffled by the dirt-covered floor. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to _say_—and that was a first in and of itself!

And, oh, what I wouldn't have given in that moment for Spot Conlon and his trusty slingshot to be there in order to shoot the amused smirk right off of the Sparrow's face…

The tension in the small, dark room was so thick that it was stifling; you could have cut it with a knife. The Sparrow was the only one of us it didn't seem to effect. He stood there, calm and collected; Sarah and me, neither one of us moved from our defensive positions. She stayed behind me, her back only a few inches away from the wall. Though my knees were nearly shaking at this newest revelation, I didn't wave from my place, making sure I stayed between Sarah and her captor.

The Sparrow pulled idly at one of the fair curls that escaped from under the rim of his derby. "Sarah, my lark," he began conversationally, his attention focused entirely on my sister now, "did I forget to tell you about our company? Because that's no way to treat our guest, my dear. Shame on you." His voice, smooth yet commanding, held a hint of a jest to it—but I didn't buy it for a second.

Still, I immediately remembered my earlier comparisons of Alfie to Jack Kelly and, almost regretfully, I had to add one more to the list: they were both equally charming when they spoke to a lady.

And, as Sarah flinched at the nickname, drawing even further away, I had to note that neither of the two boys could be successful all of the time. Just as the curly-haired girl at the Bottle Alley Home rebuffed Jack, Sarah wouldn't allow herself to be swayed by the Sparrow.

I felt my chest swell up with pride for Sarah and her stubborn refusal to give in to the Sparrow—but it deflated almost right away when I got a better look at her reaction. She had flinched and the, most unlike her, she had bowed her head in submission.

Her chin tucked into her chest, Sarah mumbled a reply that I couldn't quite make out.

I couldn't be sure if the Sparrow heard her or not. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he had straightened up from his slightly slouching stance. His hands were folded into loose fists at his side and he was frowning.

For the first time since I heard his name, I think I might've finally understood why everyone—from Rachel Harpen to Teller—spoke of him with such respect.

The sudden menacing air surrounding him made me a little nervous, too.

"What was that? I don't think I heard you right, my dear."

Lifting her head up a fraction, Sarah said quietly, "It was a great surprise to see my brother here. I've missed him."

"Yes, your David is a good man. So steadfast, so loyal, so determined…" The Sparrow sighed loudly, and I had to gulp. "No matter what I did, or how I tried to stop him, he just couldn't leave you alone, Sarah."

His words, as condescending as they were flattering, reminded me of the first rock that was thrown at me. It had been a threat, a warning that I shouldn't entangle myself with the Sparrow and his doings. But I hadn't listened then and, no matter how intimidating he could be, I wasn't going to listen now. Not about giving up, at least.

I heard him as he spoke down to Sarah. The way that he belittled her was enough for me to push aside my own nerves in favor of a justified righteousness. I wanted nothing more than to find that second stone of his and smack him in the head with it.

But, curse my luck, when I dropped the rock before, it had fallen sign down—and there was no way I could make it out in the darkness. Using my shoe, I tried to feel around for it, hoping my toe would bump into it without the Sparrow seeing what exactly I was doing. However, before I got the chance to find it, the Sparrow started talking again… and it caught my attention.

"You look surprised, my lark," he said, and I wasn't sure how he could see her expression the way he had her face turned down, "to see me speak with such familiarity about your brother. But he and I, we've met before. Haven't we, David?"

The way he drew me back into his conversation was done so quick and handled so expertly that I was left dumbfounded. It was like he _did _know what I was doing—looking for the rock—and he was stalling me, purposely preventing me from doing it.

I thought about what he said, forgetting about the rock again. Of course I remembered meeting him.

How could I forget?

"You said your name was Alfie," I told him, probably more spitefully than I should have.

"And it is. But I prefer to be called the Sparrow. It's a bit… fancier, don't you think?" He paused, stopping to pick at one of his front teeth with a fingernail as a predatory smirk slipped onto his face. "Maybe I should have mentioned that before."

"It might have been a good idea."

"I'll have to remember that next time." He cleared his throat. "David, welcome. My name is the Sparrow and this…" he said, turning his head casually from the left to the right, "this is my nest."

He was baiting me. I wasn't so foolish that I didn't realize that or recognize his attempt at humor at my expense. But the knowledge that he wanted me angry didn't stop my hands from trembling or keep my teeth from gritting down.

I hadn't taken my eyes off of Sarah. When the Sparrow spoke to her again, she dropped to the ground, kneading the edge of the rumpled blanket with frantic fingers. She was frightened and she wasn't even trying to hide her fear anymore.

What _happened _to her?

I wheeled on the Sparrow. "What did you do to my sister?"

His heavy lidded gaze flickered over to Sarah before settling back on me. He seemed unconcerned as he flippantly waved one of his hands her way. "Some birds long to fly free," he drawled in explanation. "Those that do need their wings clipped."

There he was again, making more mentions to birds in general. How did he come up with this stuff? Larks, cages, wings… he had an endless supply of nicknames and metaphors. It was driving me a little bit crazy.

"Sarah's not a bird," I argued, "she's a girl… and you can't clip her arms or legs off, Alfie!"

"It's the Sparrow, David."

Swallowing heavily, I shook my head. "Whatever it is. You can't treat a girl the way you're treating my sister!"

"I can do whatever I want," he countered, his voice picking up as his streetwise accent seemed to return effortlessly, "seein' as how I claimed her. She belongs to me now. Ain't that right, Sarah?"

For the second time, Sarah flinched when being addressed directly by the Sparrow. Her eyes went wild, her head shaking slowly as she turned to look from him to me and back. At his prodding—a quick cough a murmur of 'my lark'—Sarah stopped moving her head before nodding. "Yes," she whispered finally.

"I told ya, David. Mine."

Between his satisfaction, that exaggerated accent and Sarah's near whisper, I felt my temper flare again. I was suddenly reminded of something that Meggie had said when I first met her. In a tone full of bitterness and anger, she told me that I should just wait until the Sparrow grew tired of Sarah and let her go. She seemed certain that it would happen soon enough.

I thought about that and I was curious. He was very possessive of my sister now… but his attention wouldn't last forever, would it?

"But for how long?" I asked him, daring him to answer. "How long will it last?"

"Forever," he answered.

He actually sounded like he believed what he was saying, too.

I thought of Meggie again, her ugly scar flashing before my eyes; the ugly sneer her face twisted into at the mere mention of the Sparrow held more truth than his smooth lies. The messy, tiny dark-hair girl on my mind, I couldn't believe the Sparrow was serious, no matter how certain he sounded.

My mouth thinking for itself before my brain could catch up, I took a stab in the dark and said, "Forever, like you told Meggie?"

The Sparrow froze for a moment; from over in her corner, I could see Sarah cock her head to the side in interest. I'd definitely struck a nerve with that. It was a few seconds before he gave his hands a quick shake and cleared his throat. "Ya seen my Songbird, David?"

"I've met Meggie."

The smile slid off of his face. His dark eyes lit up in interest, but the frown that formed was so deep that there were hard lines around his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than it had been; the overdone New York accent was gone as quickly as it arrived.

He bowed his head just a little, tilting his hat in my direction. "What a horrible place to live in, the past."

I wasn't sure what exactly he was talking about. Could it be Meggie's bitterness when it came to her time with the Sparrow and the horrible injury that almost stole her voice? Or was it something else? Maybe something he was remembering…

The Sparrow kept his derby tilted, the strange expression he wore kept hidden in the shadows.

I shook my head. It didn't matter anyway.

"The past is the past, this is now. I'm here now… and I'm leaving. I'm taking my sister, and we're going home, and there's nothing you can do about it."

I tried my best to sound braver than I felt. I was confident enough but I knew better by now than to think that the Sparrow would let me take Sarah away without a fight.

I was right.

He started to clap, a short, quick applause that ran throughout the cellar, echoing in the darkness. Then, with a mocking bow, he said, "Bravo, David. You have more of a spine than I thought—but how about your brain? Think for a moment, would you? You came all the way here, entering my territory alone, without a single friend or ally… all because I told you to. Anyone who could or would help you is close to a day's walk away and you are here. You're right… you are here, but you want to spirit your sister away, free my lark from her cage. How do you propose to do that?"

To be honest, I didn't quite know how exactly I was going to do it. I just knew I had to and my best bet was to at least be up front and honest about it. Like the time I tried to save Jack Kelly from the Refuge last summer, sometimes you just had to hope for the best and make a run for it.

I just hoped that this escape went a lot better. Considering Sarah was still sitting huddled in her corner, I was more than a little worried that she—just like Jack had done that time—would refuse to follow me out.

And, after all I'd done to get to her here, I'd feel like a real idiot to return home without her. Not to mention, I had _no _idea how I would explain that to Mama... or even Spot.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, this confrontation was thirty some odd chapters coming. And it's only halfway done (the confrontation, not the story; the story itself is way more than halfway done)... woot. More coming soon!_

_-- stress, 04.25.09_


	5. In Which the Puppet Turns

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

He was waiting for my answer, but I didn't really have one. I never even thought that I was going to get this far and I was unprepared for this standoff. I didn't want to admit to that, especially since the Sparrow seemed to think I had only come because he let me in the first place—which _was _true, but I didn't want to admit that, either.

Where was Jack, with all his great ideas? I'd been the one to go to school but none of my lessons prepared me for this. This was right up Jack's alley… but I hadn't let him come with me. I was on my own.

Only… only I wasn't.

Bucking up, I met the Sparrow's impatient stare head on. I wasn't the one on my own; he was. I had my sister; the Sparrow had no one. And, with a small grin that showed my relief more than my daring, I said, "I'm going to take Sarah by the hand and I'm going to help her up the steps. There's two of us, Alfie, and only one of you. The odds are in our favor."

I knew immediately that, in my way, I shouldn't have gloated. Or called him Alfie again. From the scowl that darkened his handsome face, it was easy to see that he was insulted.

No, it probably wasn't the best idea to offend the Sparrow…

"I ask you about your brain and that's the answer I get, David? You must be more foolish than I thought. Surely you didn't think I'd do this alone?" Slow and deliberate and all too menacing, he sneered, "I learned long ago, if you fight fair, you never win."

My stomach curdled and dropped down to the depths of my too-tight shoes. "What do you mean?"

"Let's put it this way: the house always wins. The odds were _never_ in your favor."

"But—"

I managed to sputter out the one word before he cut me off with a short laugh and the truth of something I'd been too trusting—or too stupid—to have suspected.

"The moment I set foot on that first stair my Boy was already gathering together some of my birdies. Half of Midtown is ready to strike you down on my whistle. Even ol' Mac is up there waiting, and I'm certain he'd be happy to get you back for your cheek. Do you remember Mac?"

MacCauley. The big brute who manned the desk of the Midtown Lodging House… of course I remembered him. I couldn't forget that devil. His hands were so big that he could have knocked me down with a single push if he wanted to, and he was mean enough to want to do it. Only Alfie's interference had saved me the first time I met him—I wasn't eager to repeat the experience, especially now that I knew the truth.

My answer must have been written plainly on my face. With a quick gesture of his hand, the Sparrow knocked his derby back and I could see him glaring at me victoriously.

"So tell me again, David," he said, almost crowing in pride, "just how do you plan on getting away without my leave?"

"I—"

He still wasn't ready for me to try and defend myself just yet. He clucked his tongue, interrupting me a second time before I could get out more than a single word.

"You can't. And, besides," he said, as if his next argument would seal it for him, "you owe me."

"Owe you? For what?"

"For all my help. If it wasn't for me, you would never have found your way here."

My laugh was hollow. "That's exactly right," I said bravely, "because, if it wasn't for you taking my sister away from her family and friends, there wouldn't have been a need for me to be here."

"Yes, there's that," the Sparrow ceded, "but so much more. Yes, I brought Sarah here, but who was it who gave you directions to Madison Avenue, David? Or allowed you to stay here for the night? And that's not all I've been able to do for you. I've given you more than enough aid… I even sent my Boy to bring you to visit with your sister," he added, ticking off each instance of supposed help with a finger. "I'll say it once more: you owe me."

I had to work hard to swallow back a groan.

I did, too. The night that I stayed over, I was so grateful for his help that, when he said that I owed him, I agreed. I never should have, but how was I supposed to know? I never would have guessed that the charming boy I met on a corner in Midtown would be the Sparrow, or that a quick promise would be thrown into my face later.

That just goes to show my bad, horrible luck. I tell some kid that I owe him, never thinking I would see him again, and he turns out to be the legendary king of the New York streets—and not only that, but the king of the streets who stole away my sister!

What did he expect me to say? I certainly wasn't going to agree that he had a _point_. So, instead, I got angry. The way the Sparrow said it, I was just a puppet being strung along, making my moves because the puppet master pulled the wire. It was like I had no purpose, that I was simply being used because I was easily manipulated… but he was wrong.

I was David Jacobs. I had helped to start a newsboy strike and, partly because of me, the newspaper giants of the city bowed down to the working boys and girls of New York. I would never forget the look on Joseph Pulitzer's face as I explained how pointless his price hike was, and how he was only hurting himself by charging us newsies that extra ten cents per hundred.

I didn't care how I did it—and I wasn't sure how I would be able to—but this wouldn't be over until I saw that same expression on the Sparrow's face.

His warnings still ringing in my ear, the solemn understanding that I had given him my word and he was going to use that more effectively than the threat of MacCauley, I sighed and slumped my shoulders. It was my turn to be a little more theatrical now.

There was nothing I could do… not yet, anyway. The Sparrow was right when he implied I couldn't leave with Sarah like I wanted to do. Did that mean I was his prisoner, too?

I tried to hold onto my defeated look, my brain still whirring at the same time. Let him think I was lost—I needed to come up with a plan. The Sparrow was a lot smarter than I would have given him credit for. Like a tactician, he knew what his opponent's weak spots were and how exactly to exploit them. That was how he won, and that was how he stayed in power.

So, in order to beat him, I had to think like him. He couldn't possibly have invited me here just to visit Sarah, and I doubted it would benefit him to keep me captive as well. There had to be some reason why he would have arranged this meeting in the first place… but what was it?

Trying not to act even more suspicious of him—I figured, if he thought I was giving up and giving in, he might be more inclined to answer me honestly—I finally asked, "Then what do you want me to do?"

The Sparrow was pleased at my supposed surrender. "It's very simple, David. I've called you all the way here to propose a trade."

That was a surprise. "What kind of trade?"

"You've proved that there's nothing you won't do to take back your sister, and I understand that… I really do. You see, I have someone very dear to me that's missing. Not dear in the way that I hold my precious lark dear," he explained, gesturing one hand over to where Sarah still sat huddled. Shuddering, she pulled the blanket closer, the Sparrow pretended not to notice as he continued, "but important enough that I would risk almost anything to get them back."

He was giving me an opening; I wasn't going to take it for granted. "What do you want me to do?" I asked again.

"If you can recover my prize birdie, then I would be willing to let your sister return to your nice apartment downtown."

I don't know what surprised me more: that, after all this, the Sparrow might just let Sarah go, or that I had the funny feeling I knew exactly who he was talking about. Considering how lost I had been since Friday, I was betting it was probably the second one.

It was Teller's friend, the rogue Irishman she affectionately—at least, I _think _it was with affection—called Grampa, who first mentioned the Pigeon to me. He was supposed to be the Sparrow's number one spy. Able to get around the city unseen, observing and reporting back to his master, no one knew his identity except for the boy he worked for. As I remembered, Grampa said that the Pigeon was the key to getting to the Sparrow—yet, it seemed like the Sparrow was desperate to get his hands on him first.

I wondered what that was about.

It struck me as a little funny that—if, of course, that was what the Sparrow meant—he wanted me to trade the Pigeon for Sarah's freedom. After me, Jack and Teller left Grampa's hideaway in the labyrinthine corridors behind the Bowery Theatre, we were convinced that our next step in rescuing Sarah was to find the Pigeon and use him to get to the Sparrow.

All that changed when Teller disappeared and Georgie approached me and Jack just outside Bottle Alley; offering me the chance to meet with the Sparrow face to face, I'd forgotten all about looking for the Pigeon. And now, if my hunch was right, it was the Sparrow who wanted to send me off after his spy.

If the matter wasn't so serious, I think I might have laughed.

I didn't want the Sparrow to know any more about what I knew then he already did. I wasn't the best liar, and it was a struggle to keep my expression from revealing my suspicions about the Sparrow's plan. Trying my best to sound as innocent, yet as confused as I possibly could, I asked, "Who would I have to look for?"

The Sparrow paused as if for dramatic effect. And then, "The Pigeon."

I knew it. And here I'd thought I was lucky by getting out of finding the Pigeon. I should have known better…

"You want me to find you a pigeon and bring one back?" Shaking my head, I held onto my false state of confusion. "Will any do, or is there a particular bird you have in mind?"

"Don't play dumb, David. It doesn't suit you," the Sparrow snapped angrily, turning on me. "If you didn't want to take me up on my offer, that's all you had to say."

There was a steel edge to his voice, sharp, that cut right through my pretense. The menacing air surrounded him again as if it had been summoned.

I gulped again.

It _really_ wasn't a good idea to upset him.

"I… I never said that."

The Sparrow huffed, his lips set in a thin line. His face glimmered in the candlelight, fierce and annoyed. I could see his fingers drumming an angry beat against the side of his tailored trouser leg. He seemed to be thinking about what he should say next. Finally, he said quietly, "My top birdie is known as the Pigeon. They've flown the coop in recent times and I want them back. You do that, and Sarah goes home with you."

I took heart in the fact that the Sparrow offered me the trade a second time. I probably shouldn't have been so eager to agree with him, but I needed the Sparrow to give me as much information as I could if I ever wanted to beat him. "Who is the Pigeon? What does he look like? How will I know it's him?"

"You really don't expect me to tell you that, do you?" His laugh was harsh. "It's a trade, David. That's the simple part of our agreement. But if you want me to give up my lark to you, I'm going to need you to work a little harder than that."

Well, if hard work wasn't my middle name, persistence certainly was. "What do you want him for?"

The Sparrow snorted. "_That_ is between me and the Pigeon."

"All right. Fine." I shook my head and shook my hands. I could definitely be persistent, but I wasn't _that _foolish. Even I could see that it wouldn't be smart to push the matter. "Let me make sure I understand this: if I find the Pigeon for you and convince him to come back here, you'll let Sarah go, right?"

"Yes."

"You'll give me your word?"

I wasn't really sure how much I could trust his word but it was all I had. There was no other way I could justify leaving Sarah behind with him unless I tried my best to believe that he was telling the truth.

"Yes," he answered, suavely removing his derby from this head. Expertly, he flipped the hat around, tossing it in the air before catching it again and setting it back in place. Pleased to see that I was agreeing to his lopsided trade, the Sparrow's mood switched abruptly from upset to merry satisfaction in the blink of an eye. "Now, don't misunderstand me. Your sister will still be mine until… and this is a big if… I decide to free her. If I want her by my side… and I will… she'll have to fly to me. But I _will_ allow her to leave—on the one condition that she leaves Conlon in Brooklyn, of course."

It was the first time I heard the Sparrow make mention of Sarah's beau.

I don't know if I was the only one who noticed it but the shadow of Spot Conlon hung overhead throughout this meeting. The Sparrow took Sarah to get to Spot and Sarah obviously thought Spot would be the one to come to her rescue. As for me, I just was trying to figure out a way to tell Spot that I saw Sarah but I willingly left her behind me when I left.

Something told me that Spot wasn't going to understand no matter what I did.

The Sparrow let his condition hang in the air, smiling with satisfaction at the tension that came rushing back. He was looking past me, his dancing eyes locked on Sarah's profile. She refused to meet his gaze and, as I watched her myself, I could see that she was shaking again. But she didn't look afraid like she had before—she looked furious. Biting down on her bottom lip, letting her head bow down so that her long, dark hair acted as a curtain to keep the Sparrow out, I recognized her reaction.

It was just like the time that one of the local boys who lived in our tenement took to picking on her. A good Jewish girl should stay home, marry a good Jewish boy and have good Jewish babies, he said. What was she doing, running around town with a no good Catholic mick who lived on the streets?

I wanted to defend her then, but she wouldn't let me. She begged me not to tell Jack because even she wouldn't have been able to stop the fight that surely would have followed. Reluctantly, I agreed, thought I did pass word on to his brother that she needed to leave my sister alone. It didn't work, of course, and the teasing became nearly unbearable… until the day Sarah reacted.

Trembling just like that, shaking her head slowly in that same, deliberate way, she dared Alan to say one more thing. When he did, Sarah slapped him across the face so hard that a red welt the shape of her palm was left behind.

She told me then something that Jack had taught her: the only way to take care of a bully was to stand up to him. Sarah took care of herself that day and, as I watched her try not to do the same thing to the Sparrow now, I suddenly understood what Sarah meant when she said that she didn't want me to know.

She wanted to do this on her own.

But I wasn't going to agree this time. This time, I was going to help her whether she wanted me to or not.

* * *

Author's Note: _I'm having a ball with the Sparrow. He goes back and forth so much that he's even giving _me_ whiplash! And poor David... you think he would have learned _something _by now, huh? Oh, well... just wait until you see what happens next!_

_-- stress, 05.05.09_


	6. In Which David is Shadowed

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

I wasn't sure how long I had before the temper I knew Sarah harbored beneath her prim smile was unleashed, or even how the Sparrow would react to her insolence when it was, but it was up to me to step in the middle and redirect the Sparrow's attention back my way. I could just tell what sort of things were running through Sarah's head by the angry way she reacted, but Spot's name and the mention of Brooklyn had put another thought into mine.

"What about Brooklyn?"

"What about Brooklyn, David?"

"I thought… weren't you… I mean, didn't you want to help overthrow it?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sarah's head jerk up. She gaped open-mouthed, her anger momentarily forgotten at my question; if the Sparrow noticed, though, he didn't show it. "I say leave Spot Conlon to his messes. I have what I desire, and it's no business of mine if Scotch O'Reilly fails or claims the borough."

There was that conversational tone of his again. It was like he couldn't be bothered with something—or someone—that was so important to Sarah. The world and everything in it revolved around the Sparrow, the rest of us be damned. It made me so angry!

"Why do you care so much about Brooklyn anyway, David?" he continued, running his tongue along the edge of his canine tooth before sneering. "Do you fancy Conlon like your sister did?" He huffed. "I would've thought your alliance was with Jack Kelly over that Brooklyner bum."

I didn't like what he was implying. Indignant, I stuck my chin out and said, "They're both my allies."

Cocking his eyebrow knowingly, the Sparrow didn't look like he believed me. "Or maybe it's because you plan on running back over that bridge as soon as you can?"

Was it really that easy to see through my plans? Frowning, I tried not to look rattled. I don't think it worked. "Why? Will the Pigeon be there?"

"There's as good a chance as any. Like I told you before: those with wings have a horrible tendency to want to spread them. That's why the free spirits need to be contained, their wings clipped."

My stomach quivered nervously. "Is that what will happen to the Pigeon if I bring him back?"

I couldn't possibly try to find someone the Sparrow was hunting and bring them back to be tamed. It was bad enough that the Sparrow had done something to strike fear into Sarah's heart—who was I to trap someone else?

The Sparrow laughed then, a quiet and gentle laugh that almost made me forget what a credible threat he was. "Don't be so dramatic. I just need my birdie back so things will get back to normal. You understand."

"And I have your word?"

"Are you going to Brooklyn, David?"

I didn't miss the fact that he didn't answer my question but I chose not to mention it again. I just dropped the whole subject altogether. What else could I do? If I was too pushy, the Sparrow might take back his offer of a trade again. Then I'd really be in trouble.

"I'll look for the Pigeon wherever I can," I answered him at last.

"That's a good long walk from here," he noted, drawing out each one syllable word as if he was making it a question instead of making an observation. Jerking his head over at Sarah, he snapped his fingers in her direction. After a moment's hesitation where she looked to me for help, she slowly got to her feet.

"Yes?"

"Yes _what_?"

"Yes, my dear," she replied automatically. There was a strain to her voice and I was glad to see that she gave her answer through both gritted teeth and a frown.

"That's better," he smirked. I thought again about what would have happened if Spot Conlon was there to hear the way the Sparrow was treating his girl. Forget the slingshot wiping the smirk off of his face—I could see Spot being so furious that he ripped the Sparrow's lips off with his bare hands! "Come and say goodbye to your brother, Sarah. He has quite the journey ahead of him. It's time for him to go."

Sarah did exactly what he said but it was easy to see she only did so because it was something she agreed with him on. The Sparrow hadn't broken her enough for her to offer unflinching obedience. Still as stubborn as the sister I thought I knew, there was something about the way she walked towards me that made me wonder if maybe Sarah, in her way, wasn't putting on her own act.

Without the Sparrow's prodding, she wrapped her arms around me and, for one brief moment, locked eyes with mine. So much like Jack's tired, haunted stare from the past few days, the bags under her eyes nearly overwhelming her once-delicate features, there was still something there. Something I could just glimpse before her subservient mask was back in place.

I saw reassurance in her gaze, and I saw determination.

I saw hope.

The Sparrow may have tried to clip her wings but, given the chance, Sarah was going to put her lark's claws to good use.

Still, in that moment as I glanced into her brown eyes before she rested her chin on my shoulder, I knew I had to find the Pigeon. My loyalty was to my family before anything else and I could never let Sarah stay here while there was something I could do about it. This should never had happened to her. She was too good for this.

The Sparrow might have ordered her to tell me goodbye but it was me who opened my mouth first. I couldn't let her go until she knew just how sorry I was that she was in this mess at all.

"Sarah, I—"

"Don't worry about me, Davey," she whispered urgently, right into my ear. It tickled but, aware that the Sparrow was watching our exchange, I ignored the sensation. I was too concerned with hearing what she was saying. "I'm… I'm all right. I can hold out a little longer. Just make it to Brooklyn… help Spot. Please? If you help him, then he'll help you find her and—"

With a small cough and a step forward, the Sparrow interrupted us at the worst possible time. "Sarah, I think that's enough. My dear," he added, almost as an afterthought.

I felt the sigh escape her, the hot breath rush across my face. Her fingers dug into the back of my arms before they went slack and she pulled away. "Tell Mama not to worry," was all she added before she retreated back to her corner. Keeping her eyes on the dirt, purposely avoiding the other boy's stare as she slipped past him, Sarah tucked her skirt underneath her as she sat down on the dirt. Then, her hands restless, she reached out and shoved the blanket away from her.

I swallowed back my small smile. I guess I was right. Sarah wasn't broken yet.

Then, before I could say or do anything else, a hand appeared on my arm. I was startled, jumping a little at the contact. Swiveling my head, I saw the small hand and followed it up until I saw the face of the young boy it was connected to. Almost as if he had never left the cellar, Georgie appeared at my side. "Come on, Davey. I'll take you back up."

The Sparrow bowed his head as I let Georgie lead me by him, going towards the stairs. It took everything I had—plus the memory of his earlier threat—not to shove him as I passed him. He let out a small chuckle, watching me walk by from under the fringe of his dark lashes, and I knew that he was daring me to follow through on my impulse.

I didn't give him the satisfaction.

My head was spinning as I mounted each step. I wanted to turn around, to get one last look at my sister and her villain before I went back out into the sunlight—but I didn't. If I turned around, there was a good chance that I would never find it in me to actually leave.

So, instead, I thought of the last thing Sarah said to me:

_Tell Mama not to worry…_

I don't know what was worse: actually taking the steps that were bringing me farther and farther away from her, or knowing full well that I didn't plan on giving Mama the message.

--

It felt like I was in the dark dungeon of the Midtown Lodging House cellar for hours—if not _days_, that confrontation seemed to last so long—but when I drew back outside, the sun greeted me like a long lost friend. Too bright out for my eyes, I had to shield them from the sun's brilliance until I could look out in front of me without blinking the light away.

Nothing had changed.

I guess I kind of expected something to be different. I certainly felt like a different person following my meeting with the Sparrow, and my immediate aims had changed—but the world looked exactly the same to me. It wasn't fair.

"It's still empty," I said, making conversation with Georgie as we stood, stopped, right outside the door.

"What's still empty?"

"The street. Where are all the people? Weren't they supposed to waiting out here?"

"The Sparrow didn't send up a sign. As long as you walk down that street," Georgie explained, pointing down the block we'd come up, "and make sure you don't come back unless you're bringing the Pigeon with you, then the other fellas will leave you alone."

"The other fellas?"

"Yeah. His birdies."

I looked around again. There was a middle-aged woman at the end of the block, holding onto the hand of a young boy. Two men were heavy in conversation as they crossed over. Other than that, Georgie and I were by ourselves. And, I had to say, neither of those people looked like they worked for the Sparrow.

If the Sparrow's birdies were out here, where were they?

When I asked Georgie that, his answering grin—both mischievous and knowing at the same time—made me antsy. "Oh, there here, Davey. You just can't see them. 'Course, if you want to, try coming back here without the Pigeon. You'll see them all then, I promise you."

At that moment I could see why they called him the Sparrow's Boy. Just like his master, Georgie had a strange way of talking that made you wonder how much he meant his playful-enough sounding threats—and if they were even all that playful of a threat in the first place.

Shaking my head slowly, I had the sudden urge to look around me again and see if I could spot any of the Sparrow's spies. I didn't doubt Georgie's words; the idea that the Sparrow was keeping an eye on every move I made now that I agreed to his trade was entirely believable. I didn't have to like it, but the facts were there. His spies, his birdies, would be watching everything I did and reporting back to him starting—

—_now_.

I kept my eyes on the dirt as I considered what I should do next.

He expected me to go into Brooklyn. He was right, too. When we were talking in the cellar, I had every intention of heading out to Brooklyn right away. Regardless of what the Sparrow thought, I had allies there in Jack and Spot. They needed to hear what I knew now as much as I needed their help.

But his cockiness and his assuredness that he knew my next move made me spiteful. So, when Georgie tipped his hat before disappearing back inside the lodging house, I did not start off for Brooklyn.

There was somewhere else I wanted to go to first.

--

460 Madison Avenue.

I surprised myself by remembering how to find my way back here. Without Alfie's conveniently placed advice to finding the towering church, or even Teller's innate sense to always know where she was going, I relief on my own skills. It was nice to see I could do it by myself.

I couldn't really say what it was that made me decide to visit St. Patrick's Cathedral before going to Brooklyn. I wasn't a Catholic, and the church just added time and distance to my journey. I know I didn't want the Sparrow proven right—let him wonder why I'd gone this way—and, besides, I could use all the help I could get.

The church was no less impressive the second time around. At least this time I was able to really appreciate it, the beautiful architecture, the white marble that stuck out in the middle of the big city grime. Gazing up at it, I thought I might understand the reasons why Sarah and the other two boys had picked this place as their signal. There was just something about it: St. Patrick's made me want to pray.

I hesitated in front of it, one of many actually. Madison Avenue was much busier than the other street; it was a relief to be lost in the crowd. If only for a moment, I wanted to just stop and reflect on everything… I wanted to be able to stand by myself, forget the dozens of people coming and going around me, and just think.

It was something I could do.

But of course, as my luck would have it, I didn't have as long as I would've liked to do just that.

"I thought I'd find you here."

The clear voice stuck out at me, leaving me with an overwhelming feeling of having done all this before. Here I was, standing in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, and I wasn't alone anymore.

Somehow, and I wasn't sure how, Teller was here, too.

I kept my back to her, still staring unblinkingly up at the massive church. What was she doing in Midtown? She wasn't looking for me, was she?

"Did you really?" I asked, trying my best to sound uninterested.

"Um… well, no. Not really."

Nodding my head at her admission, I decided to turn around and face her. It was nice to hear her being honest, and she deserved that much at least. I sure wasn't expecting such honesty from her now, considering she'd gone against her word at least once already. And that was her disappearing act this morning I was thinking of—I hadn't even begun to come to grips over Racetrack's revelation that Teller was working with Scotch O'Reilly over in Brooklyn.

She wasn't standing too far away, only on the second step up, and it wasn't a surprise that I could make out her voice. Teller had her hands folded behind her and she was looked somewhere past me. I understood why she couldn't make eye contact, too. If I had been the one to betray her trust and take off like she'd done to me and Jack this morning, I don't think I'd even attempt to strike up a conversation.

"Then what are you doing here, Teller?"

"I had a hunch that you might make it down to Midtown today. I don't know… I talked to Meggie again and she kinda let slip that the Sparrow was in this part of town. I figured Grampa was right, that the Sparrow would be gunnin' for us eventually since we were onto him, and that Pigeon fella… well, what help would he be without us knowin' him, right?"

Lifting her head up, there was a small smile pulling on her lips as she held out her hands to me in a mock shrug. "I thought it might be nice to check the place out, take a look around this morning before I met up with you guys. Then I heard that the Sparrow had sent a messenger for ya, that he was askin' for ya to go to the Midtown House, and I knew my gut was right. So I went."

"Did your gut tell you to come to the church, too?"

"You want the truth?"

"The truth would be nice, yes."

She shrugged again, her shoulders jerking before she let her hands fall aimlessly at her side. Her dark eyes were shining brightly in the sun; she was quite a lot happier now than the last time we were together. She even laughed a bit under her breath as she admitted, "If you must know, Dave, I followed you."

Oh. She followed me.

Wait—what?

* * *

Author's Note: _Ah, Teller... I missed you, too._

_-- stress, 05.15.09_


	7. In Which a Story or Two is Told

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

"You followed me?"

"I sure did."

"But—"

"What? You didn't think I could do it, David?"

She was smiling at me, a crooked, devilish, little grin that showed me how proud of herself she was to have followed me without my having any clue that she was doing so. And not only that, either. She was daring me to answer her, daring me to tell her just what I thought about her. I don't think she'd quite forgiven me for that scene down at Tibby's yesterday—or even forgotten, for that matter.

Teller had some nerve. Looking back on our argument at Tibby's now, I decided I was entirely justified. She had been keeping something from me after all, just like I had inadvertently accused her of doing. It may not have been about the Pigeon like I'd thought, but the truth about Scotch O'Reilly was worse.

Biting down gently on my bottom lip, doing what I could to hide a frustrated scowl, I shook my head. "No," I told her. "I just don't see why you would want to."

Her smile faltered just a bit. "Why wouldn't I? I'm here to help you. Remember?"

There was no way I could keep back the small, harsh laugh that escaped me. If lying and running and hiding from me before popping up like nothing had happened was her idea of help, I was better off relying on my fellow newsies. Jack may be cocky, Spot intimidating, and Racetrack Higgins as crooked as anything, but at least I knew what I was getting myself into with them.

That laugh wiped the last vestiges of her humor off of her face. Matching my scowl, a steel edge to her dark, narrowed eyes, she snapped, "What's so funny?"

"You. This." Waving my open hand around, only just noticing in the bright sunlight how filthy my palms were, I gestured at the flood of people surrounding us. "I don't understand. Just what are you doing here, Teller?" Then, because I couldn't help it, I added, "I would have wagered against even Race that you'd be on your way to Brooklyn by now."

Betrayal was betrayal. I hadn't let Jack do it when he turned scab without trying to get him to explain himself, and I wasn't about to let Teller get away with it, either.

I think she knew almost right away that I knew the truth. Her features went blank for a moment—steeling my own nerves, I refused to take my eyes off of hers—before rearranging themselves into an exaggerated amusement. Teller was a real performer, too. If it wasn't for that one moment, that split second of hesitation, I might have believed her.

"I told ya: I was lookin' for the Sparrow and I heard that, ya know, that if I found him, there might be a good chance I'd find you there, too. I thought, maybe when I caught up with you again, maybe then we could head back into Brooklyn." Her eyes narrowed for a second longer, dark and set under her chalk-colored and pale face, before she brightened up and said, "There's something crazy goin' on over there. Did ya hear—"

One look at my face and Teller quickly changed her mind about what she was going to say. Pursing her lips, lowering her gaze to some point around my navel, she said, "Yeah. I guess ya heard."

"Oh, yes. I heard."

That was the perfect opportunity for me to talk to Teller about everything Racetrack told me last night, to confront her and demand that she tell me her true intentions—but I didn't. There was no point. Really, what did it matter just then? I had been a fool to put all of my trust into a girl I had only met a few days ago. There was no use in trying to figure out the riddle of Teller when there were more pressing matters at hand.

Teller had told me quite insistently that she didn't know who the Pigeon was. Since there were only two things that I wanted to do—checking in with Jack and Spot in Brooklyn before finding the Pigeon and bringing him back to Midtown—and neither involved her, I chose to let the conversation end there.

Angry and annoyed and, admittedly, just a touch curious to Teller's motives, I shook my head and shoved my hands in my pockets. A small shrug, an apologetic frown, and I started down the great Cathedral stairs. Teller's eyes were kept on her shoes as I passed; she didn't even glance back up as I landed on the dirt and started down the street.

I didn't turn to glance behind me until I had gotten three blocks away from St. Patrick's. I'm not sure what I wanted to see—if I wanted Teller to just forget me and go on her way or not—but, despite the people meandering around, heading to and from the church, I was able to pick her out of the crowd. Teller hadn't gotten the hint. She was still following me.

True, she was keeping a good deal back, and I shouldn't flatter myself by thinking that she was only coming this way because I was—especially since she seemed to be heading to Brooklyn, too—but she was still trailing me. I couldn't really explain it, but I was absolutely certain that she was coming this way purposely. She was following me intently, and she wasn't trying to do it sneakily this time. She _wanted_ me to see her.

Oh, well. It was a free street, after all. Teller could take this path if she wanted to. I wasn't going to stop her and, if she decided to explain herself or not, it was no business of mine.

For most of the journey, Teller seemed to agree with me. And then, after I'd been walking for what seemed like ages, taking great care to make sure I was taking the right path to Brooklyn, I felt like I was being shadowed. The hair on the back of my neck seemed to stick out; my stomach tightened as I sensed someone hovering just behind me.

I picked up my pace. I suddenly wondered if Georgie's words had meant more than I thought, if maybe I should have been more worried that the Sparrow's goons—his birdies—would take to trailing me when I left the Midtown Lodging House.

Over the mildly panicked sound of my breathing, I strained my ears until I was almost positive that I heard the steady footsteps behind me quicken. Whoever it was, there was no denying that they were coming right up behind me again. Moving even quicker than I was with my sore feet, they were matching me step for step.

Wound up tighter than a spool of thread, I tried to get out of reach of my pursuer. I wasn't able to, though, and when I felt an impatient finger jab me right in my shoulder, I jumped. My feet actually lifted an inch or two off of the cobbles before I landed with a small intake of breath. My heart beating a mile a minute as I imagined what sort of monster that Sparrow had sent after me, I whirled around and came face to face with—

—_Teller_.

"Whatcha doin', Dave? Ya looked kinda jumpy there."

"I don't know, Teller," I snapped, feeling foolish. I should have known that she would catch up to me before long. And jumpy? What did she expect, sneaking up on me like that? Of course I was jumpy! "What do you thing you're doing?"

She shrugged, meeting my peeved gaze unabashedly. I guess she was over with looking away. "Hey, I'm still followin' ya. Like I said, I was tryin' to catch up with you, so maybe I'll go with ya to Brooklyn now that I'm here. What do you think?"

I wasn't surprised that she was going to Brooklyn—in fact, that was exactly what I expected her to do—but I just couldn't get over the fact that she wanted to go with me… or wanted me to go with her, for that matter. It was as if she was showing off her loyalties to what was going on in the other borough.

And I wasn't having any of that.

I sniffed, turning back around and starting to walk away from her. Calling back over my shoulder, I said, "I'm not interested in helping Scotch O'Reilly, Teller. I have my own agenda."

"Really?" Without even missing a beat, she kept right up behind me. With a note of curiosity in her voice, she asked, "What's that?"

"I'm going to find the Pigeon and then I'm going to get my sister back."

That was the last thing she expected me to say—and it shouldn't have been. That's what this had been about, me finding Sarah. Now that the Sparrow gave me a precise task in order to get her back, I wasn't doing it. But, Teller… she didn't seem to like that at all.

With a burst of speed that took me by surprise, Teller got in front of me, stopping me right in my path. Holding her hands out in front of her, she demanded, "What you want to go and do a fool thing like that for? The Pigeon? No one's even supposed to know who he is. You'll never find him before the Sparrow does and what good will he be then?"

I shook my head and made to move around her. "I don't have to worry about the Sparrow getting to the Pigeon first."

Teller wouldn't let me walk away from her, not when she still had questions that she wanted me to answer. Making sure she was still standing right in front of me, she asked, "How's that? 'Cause you're gonna find him before the Sparrow does… is that it?"

"Something like that," I agreed.

"Tell me, David. How are you goin' to pull that off, findin' someone—findin' a myth, damn it!—before the Sparrow… the only one that knows who he's really gunnin' for… before the Sparrow does? Tell me, Dave, 'cause I'm real curious about this one."

"I'm the only one looking for the Pigeon now, that's why. He's waiting for me to bring his spy in so he doesn't have to do it himself."

I wish I had a camera. As a newspaperman, my friend Bryan Denton had this great camera with a three-legged stand that he carried around with him in order to get pictures for the _New York Sun_. I would have given anything to have one shot off his film; a snapshot of the expression Teller made when I answered her demand would have been worth it.

"You already met the Sparrow then? Talked to him, I mean?"

"Yes." I couldn't see why it excited her so much, or meant so much to her. Giving a little shake of my head, I pointed behind her. "Be careful," I told her. "You're going to run right into someone if you don't watch where you're going."

I thought she would ignore me but, with that same look of surprise mixed with suspicion flittering across her face, she turned around and joined me at my side. We walked together, Teller matching each of my strides. Shaking her head, her long, dark plait settled over her shoulder, I heard her mumble, "I didn't think—I mean…" She huffed, her eyes sliding over so that she was looking at my profile. "What happened, David?"

I wondered if I should tell her. On the one hand, I didn't want to. Maybe I was being stubborn, maybe I was being just a little spiteful, but I felt like my meeting with the Sparrow was personal. I didn't want to share it with someone who'd been lying to me since the beginning—because, until she told me otherwise, I was going to assume that that was what she'd been doing.

Then again, this was Teller. No matter what her reasons were, or who she was really working for—the Sparrow, or Scotch O'Reilly—she _had _helped me a lot. She'd had point when she scolded me at Tibby's, listing all the things she'd done for me. Considering she had a stake in what the Sparrow was doing, I guess it was only fair that I told her what he'd said. It was the least I could I do.

And then, I decided, my debt would be cleared. With the exception of the darn nickel I still owed her, I could write Teller off as soon as I told her about my conversation with the Sparrow. Besides, it would probably do me some good to tell someone about it. I didn't want to forget the Sparrow's offer, or miss any hidden meaning in his subtle threats.

So, with only a little hesitance, I began to tell Teller about this morning. Starting with our arrival at Bottle Alley—she had the decency to look ashamed when I mentioned that, I noticed—and continuing until I got to the point when I met her in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, I told her everything I could remember. She didn't cut me off, listening quietly with her head cocked slightly to the side. She looked a bit like a bird but, wisely, I kept that thought to myself.

My story kept me occupied, and I only realized how far we'd gone when I finally stopped to catch my breath. Pausing on the corner we'd come up to, I could see the looming shape of the Brooklyn Bridge in the not-too-far distance. We were almost there already. It seemed to take me much less time today than it did on Saturday; that, or I hadn't paid enough attention to the actual journey.

I wasn't the only one to notice where we were. Teller had kept silent while I spoke, walking beside me. She hadn't tried to take the lead, or make me follow in any way. When I stopped talking and she, slowly coming out of her thoughts, saw where we were, I saw that she gave a little start.

"Brooklyn," she said, muttering under her breath. "So soon."

Just the way she muttered the name of the borough reminded me of the betrayal I'd felt last night and this morning whenever I thought about Teller's helping Scotch O'Reilly. Frowning, I replied with a curt, "It's where I was going."

"You remembered the way."

"You sound surprised."

Teller shook her head, perhaps a little impishly. She looked surprised, too. "I guess I kinda am, David, if I'm bein' honest. When I left ya last, you didn't half have a mind where you was goin'."

"It's different now," I shot back. Once again, it seemed like I was the butt of all the jokes. This time, though, I wasn't having it. "I'm not as simple as you think I am."

"Hold on there. I never said—"

"That's the funny thing, Teller. You didn't have to."

I wasn't the only one who was angry. Teller turned her head, whirling on my so fast, that her braid nearly hit me in the face. "Fine," she snapped. "If you want to be like that, that's fine. And to think I was doin' all I could to help you!" She was breathing heavily, huffing in that way she had, and I couldn't help but feel guilty. It wasn't proper to be so rude to a lady. My mother would have been ashamed.

Not that that meant that I was going to give up. As horrible as I was being, there was a part of me that felt that Teller deserved it. "Were you?" I asked. "Were you, really?"

"'Course I was. What did you think I was doin'?"

That wasn't the best thing she could ask me. With the shape of the Brooklyn Bridge goading me on, and the memory of Sarah in that dark, dank basement, I finally decided to just confront her with what I was told. I wasn't only going to share with her my meeting with the Sparrow; it was time I admitted what Race told me last night.

"Why, going to see Scotch O'Reilly and report your spying back to him, of course." I didn't blink right away, waiting for Teller's reaction as I added, "Since you're working for him, and all."

* * *

Author's Note: _Poor Teller. She really thought David would be excited to see her... well, maybe later. Or, rather, the next chapter ;)_

_-- stress, 06.14.09_


	8. In Which the Cat Traps the Mouse

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

Her mouth opened, but she didn't say anything at first. Her dark eyes stared back at me and, though mine started to water, I refused to blink yet. Call me stubborn if you want. It was her turn to start answering some of my questions now. And I would wait as long as I had to. The Brooklyn Bridge wasn't going anywhere, and even the Pigeon could hold on for just a moment.

I couldn't really explain it—I think I just wanted to prove myself—but getting the truth out of Teller was that important to me.

I think that I surprised her with my casual mention of her betrayal too because it took her a few seconds before she closed her mouth and shook her head fervently. Underneath the powder that covered her cheeks, I could see a hint of red that only made me more convinced that I was right. Still, I didn't expect anything less than the heated denial that followed:

"Me? Work for O'Reilly? Are ya off your head, Dave? I've never had nothin' to do with him."

"Really?" I crossed my arms over my chest. I'd expected her to lie to me—and she did—but at least I had enough information to call her on it. I could still remember the way Race called me in to the lodging house last night, warning me all about Teller and her questionable loyalty. "Because, well, according to Race, you're quite chummy with him."

She huffed, her anger only growing when Race's name was mentioned. I took that as a sign of her guilt more than anything else. "You're gonna believe what Race tells ya?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I asked her, gritting my teeth and meeting her stare head on. As intimidating as I had to admit she could be, there was no way I was backing down right now. It had been my decision to call her out on what Racetrack told me—and now it was up to me to run with it.

I don't think Teller ever expected me to turn on her like that. She underestimated me—though I could hardly be surprised considering we'd only just met a few days ago and she barely knew me; likewise, what did I know about her? Still, she recoiled as if I'd lunged at her, her dark blue eyes widened as she glared at me. "You know what he's like, Dave. A two-bit gambler with coward's legs, a marked deck and a smart mouth for him to hide behind. You can't take anything those newsies say as true. They live their lives as a lie, lyin' to sell their papers and lyin' to themselves. Maybe he's lyin' to ya now. Did ya ever think of that?"

"How do I know _you're _not lying to me?"

"What reasons do I got to lie? I've been tryin' to help ya and I ain't lied yet."

"Oh, yeah?" I tossed back easily. I guess that's why no one saw you staying over at Bottle Alley last night, huh, Teller?"

It was her turn to grit her teeth. She sneered and, I admit, I began to think that it might not have been the smartest idea to start this argument. "Forget it, Dave," she warned and, quick as a flash, she had her back turned. She began to storm away, calling behind her angrily as she went: "I never shoulda wasted my time."

Now, just because it wasn't my best idea, it didn't mean I was going to let Teller get away from me so easily. Standing my ground, I raised my voice until I was almost yelling. I wanted to make sure she could hear me—it didn't even worry me that everyone else on the street could hear me, too.

"You told me before that you've worked for the Sparrow," I said and, like I thought, the mention of the Sparrow was enough to stop her dead in her tracks. Knowing I had her attention, I lowered my voice and continued, "Now Race tells me you're doing something with Scotch O'Reilly. But you're denying it, Teller. Why? Who _do _you do your spying for?"

She thought about that for a moment before she turned back around slowly. Her gaze narrowed on me. The corners of her lips quirked slightly, and she seemed almost proud of herself as she jutted her chin and said, "Me."

"You're doing this all for you?"

"Why not?" Teller shot back, just as defiant. I realized I had touched a raw nerve when I accused her of helping Scotch O'Reilly, but that didn't mean that I believed her. If I was being honest with myself, I didn't think I'd ever take something Teller told me at face value ever again. There were just too many questions where she was involved. "You grow up on the streets of New York, Dave, you learn real quick that the only one you can trust is yourself. Sure, I may have done some talkin' with the Sparrow before, and I admit that I do know Scotch all right, but that don't mean I'm a scabber or nothing."

I took a few cautious steps forward. Teller didn't move away, daring me to move closer. I couldn't, and she smirked knowingly.

Ignoring her smirk, I demanded, "Then what does it mean?"

Huffing again, her face turning even redder beneath the pale pallor of her powder, she said, "I thought you understood. I'm Teller, it's what I do. I listen to the word on the streets and I wait until someone comes lookin' for that information. Then I sell it to someone who needs it, whether it's the Sparrow, Spot Conlon or Scotch O'Reilly. Call me a spy if ya want, but I like to think I just hear good."

I shook my head. It all sounded so convenient—so easy an excuse for her to come up with so she didn't get caught working both sides. Besides, it didn't make any sense to me. For her to tell me that she did what she did—namely _telling_—only because she got something out of it... I didn't understand how she could say that after all I'd seen her do these last few days.

There was no way around it. She helped _me_. And what did I have to offer her?

I was just about to ask her that, ask her why she was really helping me, when it dawned on me that it didn't really matter. If I asked her and she didn't like the question, she would lie and then _I_ would be wasting my time. The memory of Sarah in the Sparrow's cellar rushed back and I knew what I had to do.

Brooklyn was waiting for me.

Shaking my head, I wordlessly turned away from her. I appreciated everything she had done for me, whatever her reasons, but I couldn't stay any longer. She would only hold me back and I would never forgive myself if this blasted curiosity and a need to understand everything got my sister into more trouble than she'd already gotten herself into.

Heading towards the bridge, I refused to glance over my shoulder as I said simply, "Goodbye, Teller."

"Where ya goin'?" she called back. I wasn't surprised. I didn't think she'd let me get the last word.

"To find the Pigeon."

"In Brooklyn?" I could hear the scoffing in her voice. "Good luck!"

It was easy to see what she was doing. The great Teller, she knew so much… but what did she know about the Pigeon? She'd spent the last two days telling me she knew nothing about him—which, admittedly, should have been my first clue when I thought about it later on—and I didn't want to hear anymore of her stories. Her stories or her lies, I was done with it.

I was done with her.

Or was I?

Teller didn't like the way I stalked off, obviously ignoring her as I was. It was no surprise when a quick peek over my shoulder revealed that she had taken a few purposeful steps after me. She stopped when she caught me looking. Her expression was as easy to read as an open book: it didn't matter what I thought. She wasn't done with _me _yet.

Just like the first time I found that she had followed me, Teller had her head cocked to the side, a crooked smile pulling gently at her lips. "You don't want to do that yet. Leave me, I mean."

I didn't like the way she said that. Almost a threat, kind of like she was kidding—in that instant, Teller reminded me so much of the Sparrow that it was uncanny. It made me feel a little sick inside, nervous and unsettled and just plain bothered. I shook my head. "I don't have time for this," I told her, though I have to say I was speaking more to me than to her.

"Hey, if you don't want to hear what I got to say…"

Her words stopped me as effectively as if she'd poured rubber glue to the worn down soles of my poor shoes. I turned back again, hoping I looked as peeved as I suddenly felt. I felt like a cat that she was playing with, throwing twine and yanking it back before I could pounce. There was the string again—and everyone knows what they say about curiosity and cats…

"And what's that?"

She shrugged casually, but there was a twinkle in the depths of her dark blue eyes that told me that she knew exactly what she was doing. Forget me being a cat. _Teller _was the cat. I was just a simple mouse, caught in her trap.

"I was thinking," she said calmly, slowly closing the gap between us and she stalked forward. Frozen as I was, intent on hearing what she was saying as she lowered her voice, I didn't move again. "Maybe you're right. I do work for me, but you're a good guy, David. It's about time I came clean with ya, tell ya something I just mighta heard when I was out on the streets..."

I knew it. With Teller, there was _always _something else.

"I'm willing to hear anything you have to tell me."

Her amused grin made her look even more like a cat—like the cat that caught the canary, in fact. "Ya see, it's about the Pigeon," she said, speaking under her breath as she took her place right in front of me. "I… the thing is… I just might know who he is."

I let her words sink in for a moment, unable to really understand what she meant. When I did, when I finally realized that I'd been right in assuming she was hiding something so valuable from me all along, I couldn't keep my voice down. It was like a small explosion. I threw my arms up in the air in frustration as I yelled, "Now? You're telling me this _now_? What? Why… why didn't you tell me before? Or Jack even? We asked you!"

She was unabashed and unapologetic as she answered, "Yeah, but so? It wouldn't have done you any good, and I wasn't sure if you even should know." Her smile slid off of her face, a strange expression replacing it. I had a hard time figuring out what it was. Regret, maybe? Or resignation? "It's tough being the one who knows too much… look, I tell ya I think I might know who the Pigeon is and ya turn on me. But ya gotta understand. If I can't sell what I know, the only way I can justify it away is to people who earn the right to hear it."

There was something about the way she said that that made me even angrier. I could tell that wasn't what she meant to do—quite the opposite, really—but I didn't care. With my nose in the air and my hands balled into useless fists, I snapped, "Did I earn it now?"

Teller sighed. "Don't be like that, Dave. You don't know how much I've done to help ya already. Givin' up the Pigeon… that could get into a lot of hot water. Ya say you met the Sparrow, right? Imagine he finds out I gave up the identity of his number one birdie, his number one spy. You think he'll be happy? You think he won't start comin' after me next? Ya saw Meggie's neck, didn't ya? Why don't you ask what the goons who done it to her looked like when the Sparrow got done with 'em? He ain't nice and he sure ain't forgivin'. I never meant to meet him straight like this."

It was amazing how she could yell at me, scold me like a mother reprimanding her child, without once having to lift her voice higher than a strained whisper. While she seemed sure of herself, almost amused as she began, she finished in all seriousness. And I felt ashamed.

I guess I never thought about it like that. I knew Teller was wary of the Sparrow—everyone who knew about him seemed to be—but to hear her speak of him so frankly like that… it really made me understand just what sort of an opponent he was. I'd thought of him as brash and bold and intimidating but I don't think I realized who precisely I was going up against until Teller took a deep breath and gave herself a little shake.

She was shaking off the shadow of the Sparrow—a shadow I'd set behind her.

Whether that was her intent or not, I felt extremely guilty, too. My hands, sweaty from being balled up so angrily, unfolded and I hesitantly reached for her. I never made contact with her shoulder, though, as I chickened out. My arms fell back at my side. "Teller, I—"

She cut me off with a frown. "So you're mad I didn't tell you one of the biggest secrets I know. Is that it, David? 'Cause I'm sorry, but I couldn't until I was sure that it was the right thing to do. I needed to know that I could trust you." She paused, and it was Teller who reached for my hand successfully. "Can I trust you?"

"I—" Momentarily speechless, I could feel my face heating up just from the soft yet callused touch of her hand against mine. I swallowed, nodding. "You… you can trust me, Teller," I told her honestly, "but you don't have to tell me who the Pigeon is. I'll… I''ll find him on my own."

Teller let go of my hand and I missed her warmth immediately. Still, it was nice to see that her frown was gone. The weight that seemed to drag her down was gone. When she smirked, it was the best thing I'd seen all day, and I barely minded when she said smarmily, "You'll never do it."

She sounded so certain that I couldn't help but take just a little offense. I guess that was a good thing. I could feel the heat in my face recede and I said, "What makes you so sure?"

"Because you're heading into Brooklyn and I can tell ya that you won't find the Pigeon over there right now."

"Oh." I looked over my shoulder, my eyes taking in the impressive structure of the bridge that connected this end of Manhattan to Brooklyn. If it wasn't for stopping again to have this talk with Teller, I could've been halfway across by now. I think it was that realization that made me sound so annoyed. "Are you telling me that, not only do you know _who _he is, but you know _where_ he is at this exact moment?"

Teller pretended to think over what I'd said. "Yeah, that's about it."

"How?"

"Simple, Dave. If you find the Sparrow, you'll find the Pigeon. He never goes too far away from his boss."

"Which one of them is the boss?" I asked.

"The Sparrow, of course." She rolled her eyes, telling me with the gesture that that was the stupidest question I could have ever asked. "The Pigeon is his personal sidekick, right? A kid called Georgie who only leaves the coop when the Sparrow sends him out."

I blinked. I think Teller could have told me that _she_ was the Pigeon and I might've expected that more than the answer she gave me. "Georgie? You mean the Sparrow's Boy?"

It was Teller's turn to blink. Her entire expression shifted, from smugness to suspicion. "What? You know Georgie, Dave? How do you know Georgie?"

Sighing, I let my head drop under the weight of her revelation. My chin tucked into my chest and I could barely mumble under my breath: "It's a long story."

_

* * *

_

Author's Note:_ Well, I'm back. As are our good pals, Teller and David -- and some more secrets. I'm sorry about the gap between chapters -- we'll blame Harper's Island and not my wandering attention span -- but I hope to get back into swing of things with this story. Especially with this ending, huh? _

_I wanted to take a quick second to thank those of you who have stumbled upon this story -- and the others in this series -- while I was... elsewhere. It was great to see the reviews, and I'm grateful that people like this. And especially to AdrenalineRush16... thank you for your kind words! This chapter is for you guys :) _

_-- stress, 08.10.09_


	9. In Which Teller Talks and David Listens

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

It _was_ a long story, and you would have thought that I had told it to Teller that morning with everything else. And I kind of already had. I'd mentioned Georgie, but I never gave him a name—not the name he let me call him, or the ridiculous nickname he proudly wore. Not really thinking that he was any more important than the one ally of the Sparrow's who didn't make me nervous, I'd bypassed him by referring to him as just a simple messenger.

Teller had crossed her arms over her chest and, in a way that would've set my poor blisters throbbing, she tapped the bottoms of her shoe against the cobblestones. "Long story, huh, Dave? I'm all ears."

For just a moment, I considered refusing her. I almost decided that it wouldn't be worth it—not the time I would spend when I finished, or whatever smart remark she would have that I never once thought that the Sparrow's Boy was significant. But then, for another moment, I thought about Teller and how she'd finally told me about the Pigeon. If I purposely kept such information from her, I'd be no better than she was.

She wanted to know how I knew Georgie, so I told her.

She listened in interest, nodding her head slowly as I explained that it was a young kid who went by the name of the Sparrow's Boy who found me and Jack just outside of Bottle Alley. Going into more details than I had earlier, I told her how I tried to have a civil conversation with the boy and how, after being so surprised by his nickname, I discovered that his given name was really Georgie.

"He told you," Teller interrupted at that point, "he told you his name was Georgie?"

I nodded. "Yes. He said that, if he could call me Davey, I could call him Georgie."

She pursed her lips. "And you believed him?"

If I hadn't already thought so before, Teller's obvious issue with trust might've struck me as odd. First Race, now Georgie… why did she always have to ask me if I believed them? Whether it was stupid or naïve on my part, I did believe them—until she started questioning me, that is. Like before, I started to feel a little shaken that, perhaps, I'd been too hasty to take Georgie's words as truth.

But I didn't want her to know that she'd rattled me. I tried to look confident as I said, "Of course. Why would he lie?"

"The Pigeon has to lie," she replied simply enough.

I had to admit, she had a point. His entire existence was a lie. The Pigeon was a shadow, someone that reported to one master; no one else knew who he was. Of course he had to lie. How else could he get all of his information and keep his identity under wraps without fibbing constantly?

I shook my head and waved my hand. "You know what? There's one way to find out if he was telling the truth or not."

That was her cue. Teller was supposed to ask me what the only thing we could do now was. But she didn't.

Instead, murmuring a bit as she lowered her voice, she said, "I just have to say that I knew it all along. I _knew _it. I never shoulda told ya. The Pigeon stays close—the Sparrow keeps his eyes on him. I never believed for a second that the Pigeon was gone. And now you know, too. It was never about getting help for your sister, Dave—it was about more than that. Keeping Sarah with him and… and lousing things up for Conlon."

She paused, then pointed at me. "That's why he did this, sendin' ya on a… what did Kelly call it? A wild _pigeon_ chase, right? Yeah. He wanted you out of the way. You care too much, David, and he doesn't like that."

It wasn't a surprise to hear her say that the Sparrow was, to put it mildly, using me, setting me up to fail so that I was out of his hair—but that didn't mean I had to like it. So, frowning, I asked with a touch of demand to my sudden pout, "What now?"

I could see the metal gears whirring like clockwork behind the strange and muted expression on her face. She was thinking hard and I didn't blame her. My own head was filled with so much that it felt like someone had stuffed my ears with cotton to keep it from all falling out.

"You were right: there's only one thing we can do." She shrugged her shoulders, seemingly lighter now that she got that little outburst off of her chest. "C'mon. Let's go."

I nodded. At least we agreed on that. We had to go.

At the same exact moment, me and Teller both started off. There was only one problem, though: we each headed in the direction we thought was right—it just wasn't the same direction. I went forward, Teller went forward, and we ended up nearly colliding in our haste to get away. Our shoulders met, banging against each other slightly, and I finally noticed that Teller hadn't gone the same way as me.

"Where are you going?"

"Brooklyn. Where were you goin'?"

"Midtown," I answered stubbornly. Wasn't it obvious? "I have to get back to the Sparrow."

Teller huffed. "Get back to the Sparrow nothing."

I blinked at her slowly, sure I was missing something. "You just said we had to go."

"Yeah, to_ Brooklyn._ We made it all the way to the Bridge, Dave. We have to find Conlon and Kelly again." She paused, covering her mouth with a smudged and dirty hand. For the first time that I'd ever seen while walking with her, Teller was working hard to keep a smile back. "Don't tell me that ya plan on keepin' all this from them."

"I wasn't, but what about Georgie… I mean, the Pigeon?"

"Look at it this way: either the kid was tellin' ya the truth and he _is _the Pigeon or he was lyin' and it don't matter who he is. If he is, you'll know where to find him when we're done in Brooklyn. If not… well, we're just back where we started again, ain't we?"

"Yes…"

Biting my lip in an admittedly anxious manner, I reached my right hand up and ruffled my sweat-plastered curls absently. Something wasn't sitting right with me and I knew exactly what it was: the key to saving Sarah, regardless of what Teller said, was the Pigeon back in _Midtown. _But Teller wanted to go to _Brooklyn_…

At least I understood now why the Sparrow was so assured when he guessed correctly that Brooklyn would be my target destination. What did it matter if I went there? He knew darn well that I'd never find the Pigeon when I arrived. According the rules of his game, I would never win. I would just lose over and over again.

My hands balled into tight fists at my side; I bit my lip so hard that I expected the taste of blood when I ran my tongue along the tender skin. Just then I wanted to go back to Midtown even more, if only to get the chance to throttle Alfie when I got there.

I think my intent was written clearly on my face because, before I'd even taken another step in that direction, Teller had shot her hand out so that it was resting warningly on my shoulder. I didn't shrug off her touch. I didn't move at all, suddenly struck dumb as I was. Teller seemed to have that effect on me and, worse, she knew it, too.

"Brooklyn, Dave," she said with a smirk, "is just over the bridge. Spot's waitin' for ya. He's gonna need your help if he plans to go up against Scotch."

The name reminded me who I was with and just what I was doing. I welcomed that earlier feeling of betrayal; it made it easier for me to step out confidently from underneath Teller's hand. Then, before I could think better of it, I said, "I would've thought you wanted Scotch to win."

This time, though, Teller didn't look angry or stunned or even bothered by my accusations. She shrugged, her long, dark plait falling to settle down the lengths of her back. "Follow me, Dave," she commanded. "If ya want, I can tell ya all about Scotch and me as we go."

I watched as she assuredly walked forward and past me, her dark eyes locked on the bridge looming in the not so far distance. Forget being a mouse or a cat. At that moment I was a fish caught on a line, Teller's offer was the bait, and I was _hooked_.

She knew just the words to say, just what to promise me, in order to get me to do what she wanted. As much as _I_ wanted to go back to Midtown, Brooklyn was a place I wanted to get to before long—and, I admit, it would be satisfying to hear just what part Scotch O'Reilly had to play in this whole mess.

Almost against my better judgment, I followed Teller as she purposely, confidently, began to lead the way towards the Brooklyn Bridge.

She didn't say anything straight away and I was suddenly torn. Maybe this was a trick, a trap orchestrated by the Sparrow or Scotch or… or _anyone_ at this point, to get me as far away from my sister. Yes, by going to Brooklyn, I would have friends on my side, but what good would that do when Sarah and the Pigeon were back in Midtown and I was a good few hours walk away?

I kept following Teller only because I didn't dare stop. Besides—that darn curiosity rearing its ugly head up again—even the promise of finding out just how she was involved with Scotch O'Reilly was enough to keep me going.

We'd gone about a quarter of the way over the bridge when she finally decided to start talking again.

"So… about O'Reilly…"

"Yes," I said eagerly. Probably too eagerly, too, but I didn't care.

Teller rolled her eyes. She was smiling, though, so I don't think she was that annoyed. She even managed a small snicker before she began again. "Ya see, I don't want you to think I work for him. 'Cause I don't. Like I told ya, I work for me and that's it. But," she added, shrugging, "ya gotta understand that Scotch and me… we got something in common."

"And what's that?"

Her answer, short and sweet and right to the point, was as much of a surprise to me as it wasn't really:

"We both want to see Spot Conlon take a fall."

I blinked once or twice, obviously taken aback by her blunt confession. Before I could say anything, though, Teller hurriedly continued, "C'mon, Dave. You've seen me with Spot—we're like oil and water. We don't mix."

Well… she did _have _a point there. I'd never seen two people who seemed to despise each other as much as the two of them. "I can definitely say that you two don't seem to get along together," I answered, tactfully.

I don't think I was as tactful as I thought. Teller snorted at my reply. "Try not at all. I don't know what it is but there's always been bad blood between us. I don't let it bother me much. Conlon is just an ass, the way I see it. I do my best to stay out of Brooklyn and Spot leaves me alone. It works… but I have to tell ya, I was all for it when I heard Scotch was plannin' to steal Brooklyn out from under Spot's nose."

"Let me see if I understand what you're saying: you're not working for him… you just believe in what he wants to do?"

Teller's answering grin was so wide that I couldn't imagine it didn't hurt. "That's it exactly!"

I couldn't believe her smile. Why was she so happy? That was _awful_ news. "So you think it's a good idea for them to bring my sister into this?"

Her happiness was short-lived. This time it was her eyes that widened; her hand flew up to her mouth and she looked flabbergasted. "Dave, I… no." She shook her head roughly, dropping her hand back to her side so that she wouldn't have to speak through her fingers again. "Look, I didn't know. I didn't even know Scotch was tryin' to get the Sparrow to help him out until me and you came by here the other day. You remember that diner I took ya to?"

"Yes, I remember." How could I forget? The soup nearly burned my tongue and I still wondered about the hygiene about the cooks in back.

"One of Scotch's fellas saw us headin' into town and he set him on our tail. He wanted to tell me about the Sparrow, what he done. Sarah… she was only supposed to be bait, he said. The Sparrow would get her, Spot would go after her and Scotch could take Brooklyn. But something went wrong."

"What went wrong?"

"The Sparrow didn't want to give Sarah back."

I didn't know what was worse: hearing Teller talk about Sarah like this, so comfortably and so concerned as if she knew her herself, or knowing that Teller had had this information since Saturday and was only telling me now.

I guess it was something else I'd just earned the right to know…

Teller went on, "Scotch was in a state over it. There he was, primed to go up against Conlon, but the Sparrow refused to let Sarah go. Scotch had lost his bargaining chip and Spot… he didn't even know that the Sparrow took Sarah until Jack Kelly told him. And then, of course, what no one counted on was _you_…

"Ya gotta believe me, Dave. I never knew nothing about your sister bein' a part of their schemes 'til I met ya down at Tibby's and Rachel Harpen sent me runnin' after ya. That's why I'm helpin' ya. Because I don't think it's right what those fellas done. If they want to fight over Brooklyn, fine. I'd be glad to see Conlon get what he deserved. But what right did they have to snatch your Sarah just because the Sparrow took a fancy to her?"

I don't know if that was a question she expected me to answer or not, but I couldn't find it in me to say anything in response just then.

For a few minutes after that we both walked in silence, Teller and I. She was breathing a little heavier than normal, glancing curiously at me out of the corner of her eye. I stared stonily ahead. My brain was spinning with the frantic pace of everything she had told me. On the one hand, it was a bit of a relief to hear that Race's friend had—if, of course, I bought Teller's story—gotten his facts wrong.

But, on the other hand, it was rough knowing what Sarah had to do with this. She'd gone from Spot's girl to an abducted victim to a bargaining chip to the Sparrow's Lark—

—and I hadn't had any clue until I found an open door, an envelope on Sarah's bed and I started off on this wretched adventure with nothing but questions and a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I felt like and idiot but, deep inside myself, I knew I was sure of one thing.

Breaking the awkward silence with a near-quiet _ahem_, I said, "I believe you, Teller."

"Good," she answered simply, though I'm almost positive I heard a sigh of relief coming from her. "You should."

I ignored that. Teller was back to her haughty self, too; that was familiar. I would need her to be at her top form if I expected her to keep helping me. But, first, I had to ask: "So what now? We're almost in Brooklyn," I pointed out. There wasn't much bridge left in front of us. "You obviously can't stand Spot—"

"Obviously," she agreed cheekily.

"—but you said before we needed to get to Brooklyn if I wanted to help him."

"You're right, David. I did say that."

I refused to let her comments confuse me or waylay me from getting my question across. "Who are you going to help then?"

The look she gave me almost made me question my sanity. It was like she thought I was mad or something. "I'm gonna help _you_, Dave."

"But I'm going to try my best to help Spot."

"Then I guess I gotta help Conlon, too."

Her answer was another surprise, something I never would have expected from her. Maybe that was why I finally managed to realize that, sometime after we made it over the bridge and back onto solid ground, Teller had lowered both her voice and her head. In turn, I had lowered my head down next to her so that I could hear what she was saying.

It suddenly made me a little uncomfortable to notice how close we were—improper almost, even though she was a street girl and I should've gotten over this by now. But I hadn't and, in an attempt to ignore the rising color in my face, I asked, feeling foolish, "Um… why are we whispering?"

"Because we're in Brooklyn," she said plainly enough. I bet she was wondering the status of my head again.

I still didn't understand. "So?"

"In Brooklyn, Dave, even the _streets_ have ears."

* * *

Author's Note: _Wow, that was a whole mess of talking. I'm glad Teller finally (finally, mind you) opened up and told David what she knew. He deserved it -- and, considering what's left in store before this whole "adventure" of his is over, I'm quite certain he has earned the right to learn everything he can :) Now, if only we could get Teller to tell the the whole truth every once in awhile._

_Thanks to Pegasus M, AdrenalineRush16 and newsies-own-me for your great reviews! And, look, no two months between updates this time ;)_

_-- stress, 08.22.09_


	10. In Which David Hits the Docks

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

The streets of Brooklyn might have ears, according to Teller, but she walked so lightly as we went along that it was as if she was afraid the very ground we were standing on was going to snitch that we were here. From the way she was treading our path so carefully I almost expected a Brooklyn newsie—Scotch or Spot's, it didn't matter—to jump out at us at any second, demanding to know what we were doing in their territory. They didn't of course. We were as free to stroll down the crowded streets the same as anyone else.

But that didn't make me feel any better about the situation; her cautiousness had already rubbed off on me. I found myself ducking ever so slightly, lowering my head so that Teller was even taller, skulking as we kept walking. It probably made me look extremely suspicious, more like I didn't belong, but I didn't stop it. Moving over to her other side, I hugged the smoke-stained brick wall, trying to be as inconspicuous at I could.

I caught Teller glancing over at me once and I'm pretty sure she rolled her eyes. I pretended not to notice. Besides, she was the one who was acting so strange. Paranoid, almost, and after she had insisted we continue on over the Brooklyn Bridge and into the other borough. After all, _I _was the one who had wanted to go back to Midtown.

At least I knew where I stood in Midtown…

My stomach was twisted up in knots, a mix of nerves and a fierce desire to go back and both confront the Sparrow and finally rescue my sister. This time I wouldn't fail Sarah. This time I knew where the Pigeon was. This time—

So preoccupied with thoughts of finally ending this for once and for all, I barely noticed where we were heading. It had just been easier to follow Teller. I had a hunch that she was taking us to the docks—Spot Conlon loved to lord over those docks as if he was the King of New York—but, if she was, she was taking us _another_ different way. I purposely chose to think that that was the case. I didn't want to know what would happen if she had a second destination in mind.

There was another thing I didn't notice at first either: though we'd passed countless corners and prime newspaper selling spots, I hadn't seen a single newsie out hawking the headlines since we arrived. Yes, it was too late for the early morning edition paper and too early for the evening edition but, still, it was strange. There was always a stray newsie or two, no matter what borough, who sold his papes from sunup to sundown, only pausing to eat and sleep and buy his newspapers when the headlines changed.

But there wasn't a single one out there. I stopped skulking around once I made that realization, straightening up so that I was about Teller's height again. I felt foolish. Just who was I hiding from?

Teller, I think, noticed the vacant corners and the absent cries of kids trying to peddle their papers at about the same time that I did. Suddenly her steps weren't so careful; her heavy shoes pounded the cobblestones of the pavement as she lengthened her stride. She was rushing to get to where she was going.

Trying to match her step—I didn't dare get myself lost in this part of town—I quickened my pace enough so that I was standing right behind her. We were walking in a brisk single file, with me only a few steps in back of her. It was easier to keep in time with her hurried stride that way.

Her walk had switched from hesitant to agitated, just like that. Teller was clutching the folds of her long brown skirt, swishing it angrily as she strode forward even faster. Lifting the hem higher than was probably proper, I could see the tops of her heeled shoes—the ones that lent her even more height—as she clomped purposefully down the street.

I didn't notice the slight wind until, somehow, it caught Teller's skirt just as she gave one hard pull on the fabric. The breeze lifted the skirt up high before twisting the folds around her legs, nearly tripping her. But it was too late—I had already gotten quite the eyeful of the backs of her legs and the bottoms of her thighs before the skirt was back in place. I could feel my face start to heat up immediately. Oh, wow.

I didn't know many girls apart from Mama and Sarah. There had never been an occasion to make acquaintances with some of the girls in lessons, and it was only recently that the fellas I knew from the lodging house started to bring their lady friends around. Accidentally—because I would never have done it on purpose—seeing so much of her leg was the most of any other girl I'd seen. And it was more than enough to set my heart racing, even if I wasn't sure if it was out of nervousness or excitement.

I had only ever felt like this before whenever I followed Jack over to Irving Hall and caught a vaudeville show. But I couldn't really count Medda as a girl, of course. Medda Larkson was beautiful and the costumes she wore left little to the imagination, but she was a performer, just like that girl over the Bowery Theatre was a performer. And, sure, Teller was a street girl, working for her own survival, but she was more respectable than an actress or a singer.

Besides, she was _Teller._

And Teller, if she had any idea what sort of effect the sight of her bare leg had on me, would definitely have something to say to me about it. In fact, the last thing I needed was for her to catch me with my face so red, especially after she had caught me… well, sniffing her yesterday. Quickly, before she turned around to check if I was still following her, I had to do something about the redness. I had to focus on something else—anything, that is, but Teller's skin.

At least that accidental glimpse had done one good thing: I wasn't repeatedly thinking about the Sparrow and Sarah just then. It was as if everything, every thought I had, had been swept out of my head with that one gust of wind. For the first time since this morning I was free to reflect on how I was feeling.

Now I just needed not to reflect on _certain _feelings…

My blisters and the soles of my feet still ached, but that was nothing new. I'd gotten used to it—or, at least, it wasn't my main concern. No, the empty, hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach was definitely more pressing. I was _hungry_. When was the last time I had really eaten?

I wanted to ask Teller about lunch but one further look at her back and my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to shake the feeling off but it didn't work. And then I remembered what sort of restaurants Teller liked to frequent in Brooklyn and, suddenly, I wasn't so hungry anymore.

Keeping up with her—the wind had conveniently disappeared and Teller's skirt wasn't tangled up in her legs, slowing her down—I contented myself with fixing my eyes on a point in the middle of the back of her blouse. It was a safe spot, one where I couldn't see anything I shouldn't if the wind started to pick up again. I _did_ see that Teller had let go of the folds of her skirt, her hands hanging loosely at her side, and I worried that she knew what had happened only a few moments ago. She didn't say anything but, just in case, I refused to look any lower.

Which was probably why, when the cobbles I was used to gave way to the wooden planks of the docks, I didn't notice the change until I missed a step and fell forward, landing squarely (and quite foolishly) on my face.

"Clumsy," Teller chided as she managed to turn just in time to see me fall at her feet. A playful sort of smile curving her lips, she shook her head slightly as she bent just enough to offer me her hand.

This time, when my face turned red, nothing I did made it fade. Because, as if my poor, battered feet had waited for the exact moment where I'd be the most humiliated to give out, when I stood up a whole group of Brooklyn newsies were jeering and laughing and even giving a rude catcall or two. I had the attention of each and every boy crowding the docks. If I didn't look like a ripe tomato with curly hair, I'd be surprised.

I didn't climb back to my feet right away. I wasn't hurt—well, my pride was, but that was it—but I couldn't find it in me to accept her help after I'd done something so stupid. After everything I'd done to get here, I just couldn't believe that I had arrived flat on my face.

Teller squatted lower, her knees locked together as she patted my shoulder lightly. "Just ignore them," she said clearly, sticking her hand back out so that it was within my reach.

Ignore them… that, I decided, was easier said than done.

But I couldn't stay down forever, either. So, with a small sigh, I grabbed Teller's hand—I hoped mine wasn't so sweaty as I did—and let her pull me to my feet. The other boys immediately started to laugh, goofing off and still poking fun as I tried hurriedly to brush myself off. It was no wonder I hadn't seen any newsies on the Brooklyn streets. From the roar of the laughter I had to think they were all on the docks, handy witnesses to the stupid way I fell.

Trying my best to ignore them like Teller told me to do, I didn't want to lift my head and face them. When she pointedly dropped my hand and gestured for me to follow her down the dock, I knew I had to—and I was surprised at what I found. Just like I expected, there was a large grouping of newsboys up and down the dock, but there was definitely not as many as there had been that day last summer when I came with Jack to talk to Spot. To be honest, there wasn't even as many boys today as there were the last time I was in Brooklyn and that was only two _days _ago.

And then it hit me. I knew exactly why the boys weren't selling, just why they were gathered at the docks, and why their numbers looked almost halved: these were Spot's boys. And they weren't just milling about, waiting for some poor schmuck like me to give them an afternoon's worth of entertainment. They were getting ready for war.

A street war for Brooklyn: Spot Conlon versus Scotch O'Reilly.

Oh, why wasn't I back in school where I belonged…

The Brooklyn newsboys seemed to lose interest in poking fun at me when I didn't answer back. As I followed Teller past the first bunch of them, trying hard not to start limping again—I could already hear the laughter starting up again if I showed the pain I felt—I couldn't believe it but not one of them said another word to me.

Of course, that could be because I was with Teller and they were wondering what she was doing back in Brooklyn… or because, all of a sudden, I heard a piercing whistle coming from across the way. I—and every other boy plus Teller—turned in time to see Spot Conlon waving us over to him.

Well, at least he _was_ at the docks.

Spot's whistle did two things: he let me and Teller know where he was and he let his boys know that he was, if not expecting us, willing to talk to us. He recognized our approach and, like that, the rest of the boys left us alone. They went back to what they were doing—talking and standing around and basically just waiting—as if we weren't even there. Which, I have to say, suited me fine.

He was not too far off from where we were. Teller fell back, letting me take the lead as we picked our way towards him. As we drew closer, it was easy to see that Spot wasn't alone. With his cowboy hat pulled low to cover his eyes, Jack was standing just behind Spot when we got to them.

"Hey, Mouth."

It was Spot who greeted us first. Or, I guess, he greeted _me_ first because, like most of his boys, he was pretending like he couldn't see Teller walking with me.

"Hiya, Davey," Jack added, raising his hand so he could flip his hat back some. I don't know if I'd just been too tired to notice it this morning but the dark circles under his eyes were even more noticeable now.

I wondered what happened to him since we separated early this morning but quickly decided that it probably wasn't a good idea to ask. At any rate, I hadn't come to ask him any questions. I'd come to tell him—to tell Spot—all about my meeting with the Sparrow. And that was just what I intended to do.

But, first, I greeted them both with a nod, unsure how to open the conversation. Teller, I noticed, said nothing at all.

Jack waved his hand over at me. "You okay?"

I knew he was talking about what had just happened even if I couldn't understand how he'd gotten a good look at my clumsiness, standing in the shadows of the crates piled up on this side of the dock as he was. My answering grin was sheepish. "I'm fine."

"Quite a fall," Spot pointed out, a gruff and tired edge to his voice. Tanned enough, I couldn't see any circles underlying his brilliant eyes, but there was a good amount of redness to them that made it simple to see that he hadn't gotten anymore sleep than the rest of us—if any at all. He snorted then, sounding nowhere near amused. "The docks are hard," he said, "even for someone as hard-headed as you."

There was something in the way that Spot made his comment that told me he didn't find my stumble half as funny as his newsies did. He was frowning, his well-known smirk eerily absent, and I knew that he wasn't glad to see me.

I was right.

Spot's fingers were absently plucking at his pale red suspenders. "Jacky tells me you went to Midtown," he announced, jerking his head back at Jack. Jack conveniently dropped his chin, his hat falling forward until all I could see was the brim.

"I did," I agreed, a little confused. I heard the hesitation in my own voice and I mirrored his frown. I had expected that much, at least. When I left Jack in order to follow Georgie, I knew that Jack was going off to find Spot. There was no doubt in my mind then that Jack would tell Spot about everything that happened that morning—so why was Spot making a point of checking Jack's story?

"Alone," Spot added, his fingers picking up a rhythm as he rapped them along the edge of his cane.

Warily, I watched his hand twitch. I had the sinking suspicion that what Spot wanted to be hitting more than his cane was my poor face. "Yes…"

"To meet with the Sparrow."

I couldn't think of anything else to say. I just nodded.

Spot was nodding, too. Slowly, bobbing his head up and down, he was nodding as he narrowed his gaze, staring at something that was over my shoulder. He wasn't glaring at me so much as he was glaring at the rest of the world. "And you're here now," he finished, his teeth clenched angrily and his hand now folded into a fist so tight that his tanned knuckles were turning white, "and you brought _this_ girl back with you. But one question for ya: where the hell is Sarah? Huh, Mouth?"

This time there was a thing or two I _could_ say but, suddenly, I didn't _want_ to tell Spot anything. Not what happened when I followed Georgie into Midtown, not what happened when I came face to face with the Sparrow… and certainly not what happened when I had to leave Sarah behind in that dank, dirty cellar the served as her cage. I didn't like the way he kept his voice low and hoarse as he spoke to me, or how he treated Teller because she had had the nerve to accompany me back into Brooklyn.

I didn't want to tell Spot anything, but I had to say something.

But what? Because, if there was one thing that I was sure of—even more than this was all the darn Sparrow's fault—it was that telling Spot Conlon I chose to leave Sarah behind in order to come see him was the last thing I wanted to do…

* * *

Author's Note: _Ah, poor Davey. Not quite the welcome he'd hoped for, huh?_

-- _stress, 09.20.09_


	11. In Which the Pigeon is out of the Bag

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

He still wasn't meeting my eyes with his so, desperate to keep it that way, I cast my gaze around. I got a quick glimpse of Spot and the tired shadow that fell at Jack's feet, the towers of haphazardly stacked crates along the edge and the many piles of rope carelessly tossed on the planks. Something seemed strange and, with a small realization, I saw that the one person who was supposed to be with Spot wasn't. Someone was missing.

Changing the subject so quickly it was obvious, I asked, "Um… where's Race?"

Spot blinked. It was a relief to see those eyes close, even if it was only for an instant. Then he snorted, and I was suddenly relieved that I wasn't Racetrack. "Bum finally fell asleep," Spot sneered, like he couldn't believe how callous and cowardly Race was to get some rest when everything—Sarah… Brooklyn…—was at stake.

"Fell asleep my foot! Ya told me I'd take a dip in the East River if I had trouble stayin' up, remember?"

The tiniest self-satisfied smirk tugged at Spot's lips as Race popped up from behind one of the stacks of crates like some sort of short, bad-tempered jack in the box. He wobbled as he appeared, leaning on the top crate for support. That didn't work, though, and the next two came crashing down in front of him.

Race barely reacted to the sound and the tumble. All he did was yawn, rub his eyes and then glare over at where the rest of us were gathered. Teller purposely turned away from him—probably remembering that it was Racetrack Higgins' big mouth that started our argument earlier today—and Jack just pulled his cowboy hat lower, covering his own yawn with an ink-stained, callused hand.

Spot just grumbled, "Clumsy."

We were all tired.

Jack had his shadows under his eyes, Spot was on edge and I wouldn't forget Teller's rant over how tired she was in a hurry. I know I hadn't slept well myself since Sarah disappeared—first in the darn Midtown Lodging House, then guiltily in my bed at home and last night in the Duane Street House. But Race… he looked worse than all of us. His greasy black hair was slicked down—like me he seemed to have misplaced his cap—and his eyes were both beady and bloodshot red. He barely had the energy to keep his head from tucking into his chest. I guess Spot made good on his threat to make Racetrack march right back into Brooklyn last night—and that neither one of them got any sleep when they made it back.

That made me a little more nervous. A fresh, wide awake Spot Conlon was difficult enough, but a Spot Conlon, furious, threatened and running on empty? I didn't stand a chance.

I knew I would have to choose my words carefully. After the small interruption Race's appearance had caused, Spot had turned his piercing gaze back on me. My question had bought me some time but changing the subject like I had wouldn't work again—I was a little amazed it had even worked at all! Spot was waiting for his answer now. He wanted to know what happened to Sarah and nothing I could say or do would waylay him.

How was I supposed to tell him?

I've always had a way with words. Call it book smarts, call it an education, call it a god-given talent, but I always managed to come up with the right thing to say… except for right at that moment. Oh, I could tell Spot the truth, but I had a sinking suspicion that Spot's answer to my story would be a punch to the face. Not much incentive for me to be honest, actually.

I was sincerely beginning to regret ever deciding to come to Spot. Maybe the Sparrow was right. Maybe I didn't have any allies.

A little desperately, I looked away from Spot. I saw Jack, whose name on an envelope had started this whole thing. I saw Race, who trusted in me enough that he told me what was really going on behind the scenes. And then, glancing just over my shoulder, I caught sight of Teller. Teller, who, right or wrong, friend or foe, had been there for me from the moment I walked into Tibby's and I saw her sitting with Jack and Crutchy.

Then there were the others: Rachel, Meggie, Grandpa, Tumbler, Georgie… everyone who helped me get here. I had more allies than I could count. I realized something just then: I may not have legions of "birdies" to do my bidding, but I had people willing to go up against the Sparrow to help me bring my sister back home.

Teller caught my eye and nodded once.

I turned back around to face Spot. He cares just as much for Sarah, I reminded myself, and he deserves to know.

Unfortunately, my body wasn't as prepared as my mind was to give in and admit to Spot that I had to leave Sarah behind in the Sparrow's clutches. As soon as I opened my mouth to begin, a sudden rumbling grumble echoed from the pit of my stomach so loud that I just knew everyone heard it.

I had forgotten how hungry I was.

I would've thought I was used to embarrassment by now, considering the way my day had gone, but I guess I wasn't. The same annoying and familiar feeling of blood rushing to my face overwhelmed me. I heard a snigger come from behind me but I refused to look. Instead, trying to pretend that that hadn't just happened, I started to say, "Spot, about Sarah—"

He cut me off with a terse shake of his head. "Wait," he said before letting loose with that same ear-splitting whistle he used to catch mine and Teller's attention earlier. Facing the docks, Spot waved one of his hands open-faced over his head before making a strange gesture. It was a flick and a shake and I had no idea what it meant.

When he finished, I thought it might be safe to try again. "Spot—"

"Not yet."

I stopped trying.

I didn't know what I was waiting for. From the look I caught Jack giving Spot, I figured I wasn't the only one lost at that moment. Two minutes passed in an uncomfortable silence. Spot's eyes, hard and unblinking, never left the docks until, out of nowhere, one of his newsies bounded over to his side. I didn't recognize him but I didn't expect to. All Brooklyn newsies looked the same to me.

Spot clapped his hand on the much taller boy's shoulder; it was an awkward reach and his newsie got the hint. The boy bent his knees slightly so that Spot could lean in and mumble something under his breath into the other boy's ear. The newsie listened intently and then, speaking just as quietly, asked a quick question of his own. Spot glanced over at Teller, scowled briefly, and nodded once. The boy took off like a shot.

"Never think that Brooklyn don't take care of its own," Spot announced, and that was all he—or anyone else, for that matter—said.

His meaning became clear a few minutes later. Two boys came hurrying back instead of the one that left, each of them carrying a mug in one dirty hand and crusty scrap of bread in the other. My stomach started to growl again at the sight of the food. I quieted it with a well-timed thump to my middle.

The two newsboys headed straight over to their leader but Spot shook his head. "It's for them," he said, waving his hand flippantly over at where I stood with Teller right behind me.

Without another word I found a hard roll and an old, chipped mug being thrust into my hands. I looked over my shoulder in time to see the taller newsie gently handing his wares off to Teller, careful not to touch her. That was strange, but no stranger than Spot actually offering to give Teller food in the first place; I made it a point not to comment on either concern. Then Spot nodded again and, as quick as they arrived, they were off again.

"Eat up," Spot ordered. "You're gonna need your strength."

I didn't like the way he said that but, too hungry to argue, I did what I was told.

The roll was so hard and stale it was like trying to break rocks with my teeth. Once I managed to break some of it apart, though, it was pretty good. Delicious even—definitely the best thing I had all day. I was a little more hesitant to drink the water. It was dingy and cloudy and there was something unidentifiable floating on the skim. I waited until I heard Teller gulping hers down in an unladylike fashion before deciding it was safe enough for me to try.

Oh, well. At least it was wet.

Spot watched us like a hawk; the moment we finished out meal, he swooped down on me and pounced. "Alright, Mouth, I'm all ears now. Where the hell is Sarah?"

I gulped, tried to swallow the thick pieces of bread that seemed to be stuck in the back of my throat and then, because I had no choice, I began to talk. For the second time—or the third, I could hardly remember anymore—I launched into my tale, starting with Georgie's rock and finishing with meeting Teller in Midtown. Like I did with her, I purposely picked and chose my details, tweaking the story here and there. But everything I _did_ tell him was true.

Spot quirked his eyebrow so high that it was nearly part of his hairline, yet he didn't interrupt me once, not even to ask me why I would go off and follow Georgie on my own or just where I met up with Teller—because, one thing was for sure, I wasn't going to admit that she found me at Sarah's formerly chosen safe place. Jack nodded along with me, a silent witness to what was being said. Even Teller, who had heard the story before and played a role in the second half of it, listened in rapt attention.

Only Race, yawning and far too close to sleep to hear much of anything, didn't really understand what I was saying. I don't think he cared, though. Sometime after I started talking, Race sat himself down on the ground, his head nodding into his chest. Spot, too engrossed in what I was saying, never even noticed.

The way he stared over at me, a calculating expression on his face and his hands folded over his chest, made me want to hurry up and spit the story out even faster. I chose to leave out anything that had to do with the Pigeon; considering the conversation at Tibby's yesterday afternoon, and Jack's idea that the Pigeon was just a myth, I didn't want to rile Spot up with talk about the condition I couldn't meet. Talking faster and faster in my urgency, I just explained Sarah's predicament—I also made it a point not to tell Spot that one of the Sparrow's conditions for Sarah's release meant that she could never see Spot again—and where precisely she could be found.

Still, I don't think that was what he expected—or wanted—to hear.

By the time I finished, Spot's arms were no longer crossed daringly over his chest; instead, they hung angrily at his side, his hands balled into fists. When he spoke, it came out through gritted teeth. "Ya came all this way to tell me _where_ Sarah was?"

"Yes…" I said hesitantly, "and no."

"No?"

"We," I began, purposely emphasizing that one word. It hadn't gone by unnoticed how he kept on refusing to acknowledge Teller's presence—with the exception of having his newsies bring her some food and water, and even then it wasn't his idea. "We came here to help you, Spot."

"Help?" Spot snorted. "You could've helped me by getting Sarah out of there."

There was no mistaking the anger in his voice. Subconsciously almost, I took a step back, widening the gap that existed between me and Spot. I'd seen Spot lunge at someone he wanted to fight once before, and only a bunch of the Manhattan newsies holding him back had kept him off Jack that time when Jack went scab. I wasn't taking any chances.

I shouldn't have worried. Before Spot could do anything else, Jack straightened up and placed a reassuring hand on Spot's shoulder. It might've been a restraint, I wasn't sure, but I watched as Spot slumped under the weight of Jack's arm. "Davey against the Sparrow? You must be off your rocker, Spot." He shook his head. "You're lettin' him get to you. Don't worry, we'll get her back."

"Damn right we will," Spot growled, before giving a jerk and shaking Jack's hand off of him.

Jack said nothing as his arm fell.

But that didn't mean that I was staying quiet. I cleared my throat, made sure that the space between me and Spot was still a good amount considering the scowl etched into his face, and then asked, "What do we do now?"

"I don't know about this we you keep goin' on about, Mouth," Spot countered, drawing his cane out from beneath his suspender strap. He immediately began tapping it against the wooden planks of the floor. "Me, I'm stayin' right here. I got a fight to win, and a girl to save."

"How are you going to do that?" I wondered. Sarah was in Midtown. Unless he went back there with me, what other way did he have in mind to rescue her?

"Scotch is comin' for me, and I won't be surprised if the Sparrow comes with him to give him his strength and numbers. You heard the same story I did—the Sparrow don't plan on givin' Sarah up yet. He comes here, he'll bring her with him, and I'll be ready."

"What about us?" I couldn't believe Spot, though I can't say I was surprised. Clinging so stubbornly to Brooklyn, it seemed like saving Sarah—for all his anger at me for failing to do so—was his second priority. But I wasn't giving up so easily. "What about me?"

Spot shot a quick glance at Teller.

"We're going to go back to Midtown," she answered decisively, speaking for the first time since we arrived at the docks.

I should've known. I opened my mouth to argue, to tell them that the last thing I wanted to do was turn around and take the walk all the way back to Midtown after going from Bottle Alley to Midtown to Brooklyn all in the same day, but I never got the chance.

It all happened so fast. There was a roar on the other side of the docks and a flash of red I caught when I peeked over my shoulder to see what had caused the noise. It must've been a sign that was long prepared because, at the sight of the waving red flag, Spot went rigid. Jack sighed and flicked his cowboy hat off of his head.

"He's coming," Spot announced, baring his teeth as he sneered. He almost looked like a mad dog and I felt for Scotch O'Reilly. I don't know how many recruits he had, or how he planned on going up against Spot, but it would be tough. Even on his own, I was beginning to think that Spot might be more than a match for his opponent.

Still, I couldn't help but squeak out, "Already?" If I was going to have to go back to Midtown, I had wanted to make it back there before Scotch tried to fight Spot for Brooklyn. What if Spot's suspicions were true, and Alfie a bigger liar than I already knew he was, and the Sparrow really was going to bring Sarah into Brooklyn to help Scotch?

Jack used his ink-stained hand to shield his eyes against the afternoon sun. "I think I see him headin' out, Spot. And he ain't alone."

For a moment Spot was silent, his eyes wide and searching. I was a little too nervous to turn behind me and really look to see whatever it was that Spot and Jack were watching. The roar on the docks had died down but there was enough noise to make me wonder how many newsboys really were in Brooklyn. Even from our place over here, I could hear names being called, insults yelled out and threats shouted.

It was even worse than that time when Mr. Wiesel set a gang upon us down at the distribution center during the strike. I gulped. But last July we had had Brooklyn on our side. With Brooklyn divided, who was going to save the day today?

And then, rising up above the sounds of Scotch and his boys approaching, one loud snore momentarily caught everyone's attention. We all looked down and found that Race, no longer able to stay awake, had fallen onto his side. His eyes were closed, he was curled up against one of the fallen crates and he sniffled in his sleep. And then he snored again.

"Race!" With a nudge that was probably a little harder than it should've been, Spot toed Race in the side. "Get up, ya lump."

Like a puppet, Race's head shot up as if a string attached to it had been yanked. His eyes were wide and staring, as if he was trying to prove that he wasn't asleep. "Whatcha want from me now, Spot?" he snapped, his voice thick and raspy as he pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"It's time."

Race just about fell over in his hurry to climb to his feet. "Shit," he swore under his breath.

_It's time… _and I thought I hadn't liked the way he ordered us to eat up before.

Spot gripped his cane in his right hand; with his left, he made that same gesture over his head again. Another boy, dark-haired, tall and as indistinguishable from the first two, came running at once. Panting, just out of breath, he didn't say anything. He just looked at Spot, awaiting his orders.

Spot nodded and pointed at me and Teller with the tip of his cane. "Here, get these two out of here."

"Never mind that, Conlon. I know the way," Teller cut in, grabbing my arm with her hand. It was covered in a slick sheen of sweat and that, more than anything, more than Jack's wariness, Race's cursing and Spot's obvious anger, that made me wonder how bad this fight was going to get.

For a moment I thought that Spot was going to argue—he certainly looked like he was raring to go and ready for a fight. But he didn't. He just met Teller's gaze, held it for a second, and then nodded. "Go."

I never even got the chance to say goodbye to the guys, or even wish them luck; she started to pull me away as soon as Spot nodded at her. Knowing there was nothing else I could do, I let her pull until we had managed to avoid getting swooped up in the crowd of boys meeting the other Brooklyn newsies head on, and had smartly ducked down a side street. Once we were out of sight, I pulled out of Teller's grasp. She didn't seem to notice; using both her hands to lift up her skirt, she was already running.

I followed her.

Teller paused at the other entrance of the side street, watching like a look-out, checking to see if it was safe to continue. I caught up with her in time to reach out and grab her arm this time. I couldn't actually bring myself to grasp her as tightly as she had mine, but it was a stronger touch than just a brush.

I think I surprised her. She spun around, her braid nearly hitting me in the face as she whirled. Her eyes were wide and her mouth dropped open. She recovered nicely, though, and she clamped both her jaw and her eyes closed in an accusing fashion. She sighed, and her eyelids fluttered back open. "What, David?"

It was easy to see that she was bothered. I didn't know what could have happened in the few short minutes since we left Spot, Jack and Race to their fight that had turned her against me, but I didn't like it. I backed up, holding my hands up apologetically. "I was just wondering why we were going back to Midtown."

She blinked. "Why wouldn't we? 'Sides, I thought you was the one who wanted to go back there instead of goin' to Brooklyn."

"I did," I admitted, "but that was before I realized that, without the Pigeon to be my bargaining chip, I'm going to need more help to get Sarah. I need Spot's help. I'll never get my sister without him."

"Why not?"

"I told you already, Teller. The Sparrow said he'll only let Sarah go if I brought the Pigeon back to him."

Teller sighed and leaned back up against the brick wall of the alleyway. "You don't have to worry about that, Dave."

"Of course I do. He told me that I couldn't come back into Midtown unless I brought the Pigeon back to him, too." It was something that had been bothering me ever since I figured I would have to return to Midtown eventually. I just thought it wouldn't be only me and Teller going up against the Sparrow and his birdies. Now, with that looking like what was going to happen, I was beginning to feel a touch panicky. Why was she so calm? "It was a cheap trick, a ploy all along to get rid of me; you told me that yourself! I can't beat him, I can't go back because, well, I don't see Georgie here, do you? And without Georgie… the Sparrow will never let me in."

"You're right," she said simply, looking away, glancing out into the busy street. She reached up and pulled on her thick braid, letting it fall over shoulder. All I could see was her profile; her eyes were nearly closed again, small slits in her pale, powdered face as she pointedly refused to look at me. "You're right," she said again, "the Sparrow didn't want ya botherin' him and he sent you out to find the Pigeon 'cause he thought you'd never pull it off. But ya did."

"Yes," I agreed, my nerves and my exhaustion and my aggravation getting to the breaking point. How could she stand there, still acting so calmly, when Scotch O'Reilly was already moving into Brooklyn and it was up to me and Teller to head right back into Midtown without fulfilling the one condition the Sparrow gave me? "I found Georgie," I reminded her, "but if he's the Pigeon, he's also the Sparrow's Boy. I'll never get him to turn against his master."

Teller shrugged. "Ya don't have to, Dave, is what I've been tryin' to tell ya." She sighed then and, slowly, she looked back at me. Her dark eyes looked heavy and sad; she was frowning. On tentative footsteps, walking so light it was as if she was nursing blisters the size of marbles like I was, Teller approached me. I nearly stopped breathing; my heart started to beat so loudly that I was sure she could hear that, too. She was so close I could actually see the freckles that dotted her nose underneath the powder she wore.

I focused on the freckles. It was a much safer bet than staring at the painted lips that were only a few inches away from mine.

"Ya don't have to, Dave," she said again, and I could feel her warm breath on my face as she exhaled, "'cause _I'm _the Pigeon, and I've _always_ been against the Sparrow."

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, here you go. Since I crossed the 50K mark on my NaNo a little early this year -- even if I still got a little bit of a ways to go to finish _that_ story -- I thought it was time to try to crank some fic out. I had a bit of inspiration on how exactly I wanted to end this trilogy but, in order to get to the end, I have to write the last few chapters :) I hope you liked it. I know I've been waiting ages for this particular reveal... even if it was a little evil to end with such a cliffhanger. Ah, well. At least it was a nice long chapter, eh?_

_-- stress, 11.21.09_


	12. In Which Teller Tells Again

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

"Wait," I said, a touch too loudly and maybe a bit sharp. I took two hurried steps back, my eyes wide and my mouth hanging slightly open. Clamping my jaw down, I shook my head. I couldn't believe what I heard, I couldn't believe what she had just told me. I held my hand up. "_What_?"

She hadn't said Georgie—she said _I_. Unless I was hearing things, Teller had just told me that _she_ was the Pigeon. But there was no way I heard her right because Teller couldn't be the Pigeon… could she?

A flash of remorse, a flash of guilt, lit up her face. I felt my stomach drop. That one look, fleeting as it was, was enough to dash my denial to bits; I spluttered a bit incoherently, unable to form sentences and words. Then the flash was replaced by a steely glint in her eyes, one that had the strength to overwhelm her features. "It's true, David. I know I shoulda told ya long before but… yeah." She shrugged, frowning. "It is what it is."

I finally managed to string enough words together to spit out what I wanted to say to her: "You're the Pigeon."

"Yeah."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

She was so serious, so certain that I had no choice but to accept that she was telling the truth. I choked back a harsh laugh, well aware that I probably looked a little nutty to her doing so. Teller—telling the truth? After all the times in the last few days where she lied to me or just wasn't as up front as she could've been, I should've known better to expect honesty from her.

I should've known better _before_ she confessed to this now.

Teller took one purposeful step towards me, entering deeper into the alleyway. I didn't want her to come closer. Throwing my hands up again, I warned her silently not to move forward. I was trembling slightly, feeling both betrayed and stupid at her revelation, but I didn't want her to notice. She needed to stay back.

I shook my head a second time. If Teller was the Pigeon, that meant something more than she was simply lying to me all along. Like I had been, my voice was shaky as I said, "All this time… you've been working for the Sparrow?"

"No!" she cried loudly before shutting her mouth just as quickly. Her dark eyes opened wide, Teller glanced behind her and into the street. When she was satisfied her outburst hadn't attracted any attention, she glanced back at me. She lowered her voice considerably. "I never worked for him. How many times I got to tell ya, David? I work for _me_." She exhaled and took another step closer to me. I tensed and she stopped. "But it's complicated, alright? He's not someone ya wanna go up against."

I didn't want her excuses. "So you spy for him because you're afraid of him! You spy and you let him do what he wants and you sit back and you watch him destroy people, families, everything!" All the anger and frustration I'd felt ever since this whole thing began came pouring out, rushing out like a flood. I knew there was a good chance I was overreacting but there was noting else I could do. I was tired, I was hungry, I put all my faith in a street girl who had been lying to me from the beginning… all I had left was my mouth, and who knew how much longer that would work. Teller hadn't listened to me once. Why would she start now?

Actually, no, that wasn't quite right. There _was_ something I could do.

Swallowing back everything else I wanted to say to her, staying my hands so that my upset wasn't so obvious, I started to walk away. It didn't seem right to go past her, so I just turned around and started going back the way we came. I was pretty confident I could make it to the docks without losing the path. Maybe I could help them beat Scotch O'Reilly, and then the fellas could go with me into Midtown. I wouldn't need the damn Pigeon if I brought Spot Conlon back with me.

Of course, I should've known better than to think Teller would let me get away without a word.

"Dave." Her voice was thin, a mere whisper. It chased me as I moved away. "Where are ya goin'?"

I ignored her. I had tried to walk away from her once before and it hadn't worked; this time it would be different. The whisper didn't surprise me, either. I remembered the last time I was alone with Teller in a side street and how careful she was not to let anyone overhear her talking about the Sparrow. But I didn't care then—and I sure couldn't find it in me to be worried now.

"You can hate me," she offered, still speaking softly. There was an urgency to her tone, though, that captured my attention. I paused, half-listening. "You can never want to see me again, I wont blame ya. But don't walk away from me now, David. You'll never get your sister back if you do."

"Oh, yeah?" I sneered, turning back around. Either my time with Spot and his boys was rubbing off on me, or the final truth of Teller's betrayal had hit me harder than I first thought. I should've known, it should've been obvious, but I didn't, it wasn't and I was stunned. Teller… the Pigeon? I could hardly believe it. I don't think I _wanted_ to believe it. Huffing again, I snapped, "And why not?"

"The Sparrow told you that he wants the Pigeon back in exchange for your sister. Well, he can have me then."

No matter how angry I was that she lied to me, no matter how hurt I was that she kept this from me all along, there was no way I could, in good conscience, give Teller up for Sarah's return. I would do it myself, without sacrificing her or even asking for her help. The Pigeon or not, I couldn't willingly offer her up to the Sparrow. I didn't know what he had in mind for his top birdie, but I knew it wasn't good.

I shook my head roughly. "I can't let you turn yourself over to him."

"I'm not asking you for your permission."

Narrowing my gaze, squinting against the sunlight filtering into the alleyway, I searched Teller's face for some clue behind her offer. Her head was slightly cocked to one side, her pointed chin jutting out in defiance. She was hugging herself, her arms wrapped around her middle, but it was only obvious that nothing I said or did was going to change her mind.

"Why?" I demanded, part suspicious, part curious. "Why would you do that?"

"I was thinking… ya know, when you was tellin' your story again? It ain't right what's goin' on, it was never right, and I never shoulda let it get this far, but…"

"But what?" I didn't understand. I don't think I would ever understand. I was standing in a dirty alley sandwiched between two Brooklyn side streets with a girl called Teller who was secretly the infamous Pigeon. Even Shakespeare made more sense than this!

Teller wasn't any help, either. She refused to meet my eyes as she tried to explain: "I don't know. I like you, Dave. I was afraid if I told ya the truth, you'd get your sister and that was that. I wanted to help and I did, but I just didn't want to give up who I am to do it. It's the only secret I got that's _mine_."

It was hard for me to admit it, but she had a point. As I knew only too well, we'd only just met a few days ago. What right did I have to expect her to do more than she had? I had thought that Jack Kelly was my friend only to discover the truth about who he was. We were still friends because I had been able to count on him in the end. And, as much as my stubbornness wanted to deny it, I had a feeling that I could count on Teller, too.

Maybe…

"You told me that Georgie was the Pigeon," I muttered, exhaling loudly, walking towards where she stood next to the wall.

Her answer was simple enough. She shrugged, letting her arms settle comfortably at her side. "I also told you that the Pigeon has to lie."

"But you kept saying he," I reminded Teller, unwilling to drop it just yet. It was that curious nature I found inside me during this search for Sarah that pushed me to add that. In lessons or not, I still needed answers. "You misled me on purpose, didn't you?"

A real smile crossed her face, not that crooked one I knew so well, or even that smirk of hers that rivaled Spot Conlon's. She was smiling in amusement, in open folly. Being honest, not having to keep things hidden, it really brightened her whole expression. "Would you have believed the Pigeon was a girl?"

I couldn't keep my emotions hidden like that, or even switch from one to another so easily. Teller was able to read me like an open book—and it was pretty obvious that I was giving in. I didn't want to fight her anymore. I just wanted my sister, I wanted to go home and I wanted to forget all about birds and metaphors and everything else. In order to do that, I had to meet with the Sparrow again. I would worry about Teller and the Pigeon and the fact that they were one and the same later on.

Still, I couldn't keep my own exasperated grin from splitting my face. But only for a second—I didn't want her to think that I was going to forget her lying to me in a hurry. I wasn't… but there were bigger things at stake than my hurt feelings.

"Okay," I said at last, nodding because it was probably the only thing I could do that made _some_ sense. "Okay… fine. We're going into Midtown. Right?"

"It's what we gotta do."

I pursed my lips. "And I'm not going to be able to convince you not to go back with me, am I?"

"Nope."

"So we're going but… is there anything else I should know first? Is there anything else you have to tell me, Teller?"

She stood there, her back up against the brick wall, a queer expression on her face. The tips of her fingers tapped anxiously against the craggy rock. She hesitated, blinking once, then shook her head firmly. Her hands fell back to her side.

I knew then for sure that she was still lying. There was definitely more to it—but I wasn't sure I really wanted to know anymore. I decided this time to just let it go.

"To Midtown?" I asked again, hoping she might change her mind. Then again, this was Teller. I highly doubted she would.

She sighed, a sound so soft I don't think I was meant to hear it. Then she nodded, a quick nod, decisive.

"To the Sparrow," she agreed.

* * *

It was starting to darken by the time we were entering the heart of Midtown; the sun was sinking behind the buildings, making the dingy area that housed the Midtown Lodging House even dingier. I didn't like the dark. Though I couldn't see them, Alfie's threats and Georgie's comments ran repeatedly through my head. The Sparrow's birdies were out there.

I could feel their eyes on my back as Teller and I walked along the empty streets. We were probably four or five blocks away from the Sparrow's roost, if that's what it was, and my earlier urge to return had all but faded into a muted nervousness and a fiery desire to see Sarah again.

Teller, who had started off so confidently, leading the way and catching my attempts to separate myself from her, was taking smaller and smaller steps the closer we got. Her face betrayed no emotion—except, perhaps, concentration—but I could see the way her fingers absently kneaded the material of her long skirt. She was just as concerned as I was.

And I was definitely concerned. I had a million thoughts racing through my head. What was Sarah doing? Would the Sparrow still be here? Would he be in Brooklyn instead? Would he hold true to his end of the bargain if Teller really turned herself over to him?

Could I really just stand there and let Teller turn herself over to him?

I was torn, even though I was aware I shouldn't be. Sarah was my older sister, she was family, and I owed it to her to be there for her. But Teller… every time I thought about it, the bundle of nerves, worry and determination that made up my insides seemed to tighten and twitch. All I kept remembering was the Sparrow's smug smile as he talked about clipping wings and keeping the Pigeon from flying free.

Could I do that to Teller? After everything she had done for me, after everything she had sacrificed to help a guy she only met a handful of days before, could I really leave her to that fate?

Meggie's scarred throat flashed in front of my eyes, and I could almost hear Teller again—

_Don't be like that, Dave. You don't know how much I've done to help ya already. Givin' up the Pigeon… that could get me into a lot of hot water. Ya say you met the Sparrow, right? Imagine he finds out I gave up the identity of his number one birdie, his number one spy. You think he'll be happy? You think he won't start comin' after me next? Ya saw Meggie's neck, didn't ya? Why don't you ask what the goons who done it to her looked like when the Sparrow got done with 'em? He ain't nice and he sure ain't forgivin'. I never meant to meet him straight like this…_

And that wasn't _all_ I was worrying about. On this side of the bridge, countless blocks away from the docks we left Jack, Spot and Race standing on, I couldn't help but worry how the big fight for Brooklyn was going. Scotch O'Reilly had been leading his boys down to those docks when me and Teller were leaving. What happened next?

I wished I had answers but all I had were questions—and more questions on top of that. When the rumble broke out, would the police interfere? Would they even care, or would they let the two gangs of boys duke it out over their precious territory? I wasn't naïve enough anymore to be blind to the corruption and indifference of the police. A couple of cops leading their horses past a fight that didn't concern them was something I knew all too well from the strike. The cops only came when they were being paid to.

Then, on top of all the worries I had, there was the one that I considered to be the most pressing. We were getting closer and closer to where we hoped to find the Sparrow still hiding out and so far we'd been lucky that no one had stopped us. Georgie had told me not to return to Midtown without the Pigeon if I didn't want to meet the Sparrow's birdies. Even though I _was_ bringing Teller with me—or she was bringing me with her, I couldn't tell anymore—and she insisted that _she_ was the Pigeon now, nobody else was supposed to know who she was except for the Sparrow.

So, if her identity was such a secret, how was I supposed to waltz right back up to the Midtown Lodging House with Teller in tow and not be shot down because she wasn't the Pigeon? Feeling my worry grow as we got closer, I asked Teller that exact question.

She paused on a street corner two blocks away from the Midtown House—my stomach dropped as I caught sight of it in the distance—and turned her heavy gaze on me. She seemed to be searching my face for something, her lips pressed together and her eyes unblinking. I felt my breath catch in my throat, a different sort of nervous washing over me. We hadn't said one word to each other since we left Brooklyn, though she kept close tabs on me as she walked and I shuffled my feet, and the sound of my voice sounded as foreign to me as the streets seemed recognizable now.

But then that same old familiar crooked smile of hers was pulling on her lips. "That's the least of our worries, Dave. It doesn't matter who knows who I really am or not—I'm pretty well known around these parts. As long as you're with me, we'll get to the Sparrow's hideout, and then I'll tell that bum I'm here and he'll let us both in. 'Sides," she added, her smile even more crooked, "we just past three of his damn birdies hidin' in the last two blocks alone and they never even blinked."

My head whipped around and I could've sworn I saw a shadow move. Teller laughed, and I wasn't too sure what it was she found funny: my reaction, or the fact that, after all the lying she'd done, I believed what she said. I decided not to ask.

Instead, tired but determined, I pressed on. Teller let me lead the way. The street hadn't chanced since that morning, still empty and covered with strewn rubbish and scattered paper. I caught a glimpse of a torn piece of newspaper and I thought about Les. My brother thought selling newspapers with newsies like Jack and Racetrack, Boots and Snipeshooter was the greatest adventure around.

What would he think about the adventure I'd been on ever since we returned from lessons and found the door to our apartment open?

My mind on Les and the look on his face if—_when_—I emerged the hero, I didn't notice it when Teller overtook me and started towards the back entrance where Georgie had brought me only that morning. I didn't notice the candles shining against the grimy windows of the lodging house or how quiet it was… not right away, at least. I did, however, notice all that, and then some, when, out of nowhere, a boy appeared suddenly right in front of us.

I have to admit, I first took him to be Les, and I wasn't really all that surprised to find my younger brother in Midtown. The boy certainly looked like Les, a little taller and thin, with shaggy, dirty hair and a stretched-out look; he wasn't wearing the derby from earlier, which was probably why I didn't know him straight away. This far between gas lamps, his face was too shadowed to be noticeable.

It was only when I heard Teller's voice call out a name that wasn't Les that I took the opportunity to draw closer and get a better look at his face.

He was Georgie, the Sparrow's Boy.

His eyes had been narrowed in my direction when I approached him but, at the sound of Teller calling his name, Georgie's head swiveled to find her in the darkness. His whole body gave a jerk and the next thing I knew, he ran right up to her. "Mary! Thank goodness. Ya don't know how worried Alf—I mean, the Boss was."

Mary, I wondered as I watched him reach for her hand, who was Mary? Then it occurred to me, for the first time since we met, that Teller—or the Pigeon, for that matter—couldn't be her given name. But how in the world did Georgie know it?

She didn't seem bothered by his use of the name, but something else he said had annoyed her. Teller snorted, ruffling his hair in a display of affection that also caught me off guard. "Somehow worried ain't the word that springs to mind."

Georgie ducked out from under her playful fingers before turning to look at me next. This close I could see he was smiling, and it was nothing like that shark-like grin I remembered. He looked much younger—much happier—than he had when I left him this morning. "Davey, ya brought the Pigeon back," he said with a childlike wonder that showed just how little confidence he'd had in me. "Ya did it. Ya brought my sister back."

I nearly stumbled and fell over. _Sister_?

Wow. When I thought Teller was still keeping something back, I was definitely right…

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, this story is coming along nicely. There's only 2-3 chapters left -- we'll see how the final scene wants to play itself out -- and then David's story will finally be complete. I don't know if I'm happy or sad about that, actually, but there's definitely some excitement on my part. I hope you guys feel the same :) I had such a great time with this opening scene in particular, considering how long Teller had those questions coming, but there's still a lot more to go. It's gonna be a wild ride these last few parts..._

_-- stress, 12.03.09_


	13. In Which the Sparrow is Impatient

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

Honestly, for maybe a second or two after Georgie said what he did, I swore I heard him wrong. That a lack of sleep, too much running around New York and a never-ending worry about my sister had finally made me mad enough to start hearing things, making something out of what was probably nothing at all. Who knows? Maybe I was so concerned about Sarah that I started to imagine that every boy had a sister, and that every boy was looking out for her… maybe _that_ was why I thought Georgie had referred to Teller as his. Besides, I hadn't been mistaken when Teller admitted to being the Pigeon. Maybe now my ears decided it was time to act up on me.

But then I realized that I distinctly heard Georgie call her Mary and I knew that I hadn't gone all that nutty just yet. I was tired, I was sore and I was only an alleyway and a flight of stairs away from getting back to Sarah, but there was no way around the fact that the Sparrow's Boy had not only called Teller his sister, but he called her by a name that only her brother would know.

_And she wasn't denying it, either!_

Out of the corner of my eye I glanced curiously at her. "Sister?" I asked. I could feel my forehead scrunch up and my eyebrows rise in obvious surprise—which, now that I think about it, maybe shouldn't have been _so_ obvious—but I guess I was expecting it in a way. Nothing Teller did should've been able to surprise me anymore. And the sad thing was that I thought I'd gotten over any surprise back in that alley in Brooklyn. It seemed I was wrong about _that_.

She shook her head slowly, a tiny motion only I was meant to see. "It's not the time, David," she muttered under her breath, pretending like it didn't hardly matter that Georgie was her kid brother. That was no surprise, either, and neither was my desire to keep on going.

"You're his sister, Teller?"

"Yes," she answered shortly, narrowing her eyes in warning as she turned to glare at me, "but, like I said, it ain't the time." There was something in her voice that told me to drop it—so I did. She waited to see if I was done yet and, after one last stern look, she turned back to her brother. "I'm here, Georgie, let's go."

Georgie nodded and immediately reached for Teller's wrist which she allowed him to take without even a second's hesitation. I couldn't help but notice, the way his smaller hand tightly gripped Teller's thin wrist, how dirty his were compared to hers and how much darker his skin was. Still, it was a familiar gesture, a familial hold, something that told me more about their relationship than their words had. As Georgie held onto Teller and he started to lead her towards the wooden door of the back entrance, it seemed to me that she was only so agreeable because it was Georgie who was bringing her there.

I watched them for a second—it was strange how much the two of them reminded me of Sarah and Les—before realizing that they were headed for the very same place I needed to go. Of course I started to follow after. But I only managed to take two steps before Teller stopped walking.

I hadn't expected her to stop like that and I only just missed running straight into her back. My mind already on what—_who_—I would find at the bottom of the stairs, I noticed she'd frozen up a split second before we would've collided. Catching myself in time, I stumbled, leaning back on my sore heels before I could fall, and managed to right myself by taking a quick and hurried step behind me.

"What?" I asked, the words out before I knew it. "What happened? Is something wrong?"

Teller, who had glanced over her shoulder and seen the way I almost ended up sprawled all over the cobbles, simply stood there. She didn't offer any help; she just pursed her lips and watched me unblinkingly. Then, pulling her hand back from Georgie's grubby grasp, she pointed at me and waved her hand shortly. "Not you, Dave," she said firmly, shaking her head next. "I don't want you comin' with us. Leave your sister to me, alright?"

"No," argued Georgie, trying to take her hand back. She kept it held out; when he couldn't grab hers, he anxiously started to tap his pudgy fingers against the edge of his thigh. "That's not how it's gotta be, Mary, and ya know it. The Boss said that Davey's gotta come down, too." He shrugged. "Sorry," he added plainly before stopping his tapping and reaching for the hem of Teller's blouse instead of her wrist. He gave a small tug. "He's waitin' for us."

Teller didn't seem to like hearing that—or maybe she took offense to having her blouse yanked in such a way. I know Sarah never would've allowed me or Les to treat her like someone to be pulled and led and Teller was much more outspoken than my sister. Swatting at Georgie's hand like it was a pesky summer fly, she quickly stepped away from him so that he couldn't grab at her again.

But, see, there was one small problem with her taking that step back: I was still standing right behind her, a fact that Teller probably had forgotten. At least, I figured she had to have forgotten. Why else would she bump into me like that?

It all happened so fast. One minute Teller was following her little brother towards the door, the next she had backed right into me. And, though I wasn't expecting her to and I definitely wasn't ready when she did, it was Teller who stumbled and lost her footing this time. Reflexes I never even knew I had kicked in then and I was only able to keep her on her feet by wrapping my arms around her, holding her steady.

She still smelled like soap. It was pretty.

As soon as she was sturdy, I had no choice but to let her go; I probably held onto her a second too long at any rate, and it was only when I felt my face heat up in embarrassment that I hurriedly dropped my arms back to my side. She seemed to run away from that very spot, her heeled shoes racketing against the cobblestones as she took hurried steps away, creating as much distance between the two of us as she could in a moment's notice. Her arm was outstretched, gesturing back at me as she told Georgie hotly, "And I tell ya, David's got nothin' to do with this!"

I don't know who it was she was trying to convince: Georgie or herself. Standing there like a fool, my face flushed angrily and my hands clenched. What was that about? And where did it come from?

Teller shook her head then, slightly out of breath from her outburst, her chest heaving underneath her thin blouse. I wanted to say something to her then but I couldn't, and she just ignored the indignant stammers that I couldn't keep back. "Look, I'm not gonna let him come," she added, her voice lowered a little, all the while pretending like everything that had just happened hadn't just happened—or like I wasn't standing there anymore. "I don't want him gettin' in anymore trouble."

"I have everything to do with this," I countered, sounding far angrier than I wanted to. Why else had I come back all this way if not to confront the Sparrow and save Sarah? I got into more trouble than I knew what to do with the moment I delivered Sarah's note to Jack in Tibby's. This was as much my fight—more, even—than it was Teller's. How dare she! And after I kept her from falling, too!

Her fire turned to pleading as, for the first time since she landed against me, she met my eyes. She was frowning, her shoulders slumped. Defeated. Teller sighed. "You don't understand—"

"Ah, but I think it's you that don't understand, girlie."

A shadow fell over us and, glancing up, I saw that a man, like Georgie had before him, appeared from out of nowhere at the end of the street, in the mouth of the alley. Very tall and thick, wide all the way around with small beady eyes and curls just as dark, I recognized him at once: MacCauley—_Mac_—the man who ran the desk inside the Midtown Lodging House. He looked his nose up at me, sneering and acting just like the oafish man I remembered meeting Friday night, but his tiny eyes were narrowed all too noticeably on Teller.

Did she know him, I wondered. It made sense to me. Maybe. I didn't know. Honestly, having Mac appear so suddenly, so unexpectedly like that was playing games with my head now. It was supposed to be easy—well, easier than this. All I had to do was leave Brooklyn to Spot, Jack and Race while we came all this way back to get Sarah. Now there was Georgie, and Mac… the way everything was going now, _the Sparrow_ would be coming up to meet us next.

MacCauley nodded over at her as he said snidely, "The Sparrow wants to see the boy again, so I suggest ya get goin'."

Teller crossed her arms over her chest as she eyed him coldly. "He sent you up too, Mac?"

Ah, so she did know him. I thought she might, considering how closely tied to all this Teller was, but I never expected—or _wanted_—to see Mac again. Seeing him when I was with Teller, or when she was with me… it just seemed wrong.

Mac met her cold stare and returned it with a leer that made the hair on my arms stand up. I knew Teller was a street girl and things were quite obviously different from what I was used to, but no girl ought to be looked at like that. Especially not by such a brute like MacCauley. I took a step toward him, fully intending to tell him what I thought about him. The way I saw it, Mac said that the Sparrow wanted to see me. Mac obviously answered to him—he would be in a lot of trouble if he sent me down in pieces.

It was Teller who stopped me. Before I got any closer she reached out and laid her bare hand on my shoulder. A small shake of her head and I knew better than to keep going. I stopped and she took her hand back, folding it behind her back. Then, looking right over at Mac, she asked him outright, "What is it you want?"

"You, of course. He's been waitin'."

Now, Teller was a tall girl as it was, nearly as tall as me and definitely taller than Spot Conlon, and her shoes were heeled to lend her more height, but Mac was still at least a head taller. That didn't stop her, though, from stalking over to him, going so close that she was nose to nose with Mac—or nose to throat. "He can keep waitin', too. I'll go down when I'm good and ready."

Mac laughed, a cheap little laugh that made me dislike him even more. "You got spunk and a mouth and ya know damn well the Sparrow don't take to either, girlie. He's impatient, he is, and ya won't be the only one who suffers from it."

He didn't even need the nasty look or the threatening way he loomed over her. The words were enough—the words and the sidelong glance of his in Georgie's direction and mine.

Teller thought about what he said for a second before she reluctantly made her decision. She let her hands settle back to her side; she was giving in. "I'll go," she said, already backing up even if she didn't take her eyes off of his bulk, "but you're stayin' here. I know the way." There was a dare in her voice, in her eyes, in her warlk. It was a dare for Mac to go after her. I waited, tensed, to see what he would do.

Mac nodded—I had a feeling those were his instructions anyway—but Georgie was wearing an expression I knew all too well. His face was screwed up innocently—_too_ innocently—just like the face Les wore whenever he broke something in the house or spilled his soup. He was trying too hard. Whether or not she decided he was to come, too, I knew there was no way he would be left behind.

Teller swept past the rest of us, her nose in the air and her hands twisted tightly in the folds of her skirt; she kept the hem a few inches from the ground in order to prevent any other stumbles or missteps. She was silent as she went and, without a word from me, I proceeded to follow her. Georgie hiked up his trousers, did some strange kind of hopping jig I would've expected from Les or Tumbler and ran off next. He didn't stop until he had taken over the lead from Teller.

As Georgie reached the wooden door, I dared a small glance behind me. Mac was already gone. No doubt the big man was halfway back to informing the Sparrow we were nearly there. Ha, I thought. Good riddance.

Just like he had done that morning—was it really on that morning, I marveled—Georgie rapped out an intricate knock on the center pat of the wood. And, just like that morning, the door swung inward and, not surprisingly, no one was there. I almost could've sworn that I heard a small click as the side door that led out to the landing was closed but I couldn't be sure. It was just nicer to believe that someone had let us in rather than wonder if ghosts and spooks were responsible. After everything I'd seen, done and heard about the Sparrow and his vast and loyal network of birdies, I wouldn't put it past him.

The landing was as dark as it had been when I came here earlier; darker, maybe, because afternoon had long ago given way to evening. The only light came at the other end of the short way, a deceptively cozy orange haze rising up from the bottom of the stairs I knew were there.

I wasn't afraid of being pushed down the flight this time, though that might've been because Georgie was in front of me instead of behind, with Teller right on his heels. It was me who brought up the rear and, as Georgie wasted no time in leading us down to the lower level, I was the last one to land on the packed dirt floor at the bottom.

At first I thought the cellar room was empty apart from the candles. There were a few wax candles set at the foot of the stairs, three candles that explained the bright orange glow even if they were more than halfway burned down. Another two were stationed across the room, smaller flames that were battling the damp that seeped in through the walls. It took me a few seconds and a couple of quick blinks before my eyes were adjusted enough to notice that there was a dark, covered lump lying just behind those candles.

It took another couple of seconds before I remembered that that was the corner Sarah had been sitting in this morning—and that the dark covering the light barely reached was the dusty, dirty blanket that had been tossed at her feet.

My heart started to beat frantically, my imagination already running wild with reasons why she was so still. Was she sleeping… or worse? Was she hurt? Was she even there? Was I too late? What—

I shook my head. My stomach tightened and I felt sick just at those thoughts. Still, I couldn't bring myself to go over there. It was all I could do to whisper her name.

"Sarah?"

I nearly swallowed my tongue, I gasped so loudly. As soon as I said her name, the lump moved. She jerked and stirred and, if she'd been sleeping, I knew she must've only been pretending. Throwing the blanket off of her in one quick motion, I watched as Sarah hurriedly pulled herself to her knees and, fumbling for one of the candles, picked it up. It was her turn to blink against the feeble flame but I could tell when she recognized me. Her eyes seemed to come alive and her free hand covered her mouth.

It was difficult for me to say the same about her. Instead of half a day, it was as if weeks had passed since I'd seen her last. Her hair was more matted than it had been before and her face was hidden behind a mask of dirt. She was on her knees and she didn't seem to have the strength to stand.

"David?"

Her voice was quaky, she was trembling and I found myself still frozen. I just couldn't move. I hadn't expected to find Sarah so broken—even this morning she still retained the spirit I knew her for—and the sight of her on the ground, tired and afraid, kept me rooted to the spot. "Oh, Sarah," I murmured, the guilt that it took me so long to get back to her rising up in me like the morning tide. Breaking free, I started toward her. "I could've… I should've…"

"David, no—don't!"

The panic in her voice stopped me dead in my tracks. There was something in the way she said that that made me glance around, checking over my shoulder for something I wasn't sure of. I saw Georgie and Teller but, suddenly, I wondered how many other people could be hidden in the darkness down there.

I was right, too.

There was a click, a click that came from behind me. I turned my head again, trying to follow the sound. I found it, too, just in time for another flame appeared. Slipping out of the shadows came Alfie—the Sparrow—a freshly lit oil lamp held tightly in his hand. He had his dusty old bowler hat perched smartly on his head, cocked to one side so that it shielded half of his face, keeping it hidden from the rest of us. His smile was visible, though, and the light flickered off the edge of his pointed teeth. It was the expression of a predator, of someone who knew he had every advantage.

I had to admit that the Sparrow did, too: we were on his territory, he had the numbers on his side and he had Sarah as a bargaining chip. No wonder she was so worried—_she_ knew he was down here. And no wonder she was pretending to be asleep. She didn't want to have to face him anymore.

_Sarah_…

I still wanted to go to her, to help her up off of the cold, hard ground… but I didn't. It took every ounce of self control I had to stay put. I didn't need the now recognizable touch of Teller's hand against my shoulder to keep me back this time. Common sense and a fledgling education apart from all that I learned in books and at lessons kept me from rushing forward.

It was a stand-off, face to face. It was me (and Teller) against the Sparrow. I'd done what he asked. It was time he did his part.

The Sparrow was still smirking, still smiling. It was a wider grin, one that reminded me of Georgie's shark-like grin, probably because his teeth showed even more. I longed to wipe the smile off of his face but there wasn't time for pettiness or vengeance right now. Maybe later, but there more important things to deal with first—like finally rescuing Sarah and getting her out of there.

My heart was still beating too fast and I realized that it had never slowed back to normal. I was nervous, my tongue was tied in knots but I hadn't come this far to give up at the end. The Sparrow hadn't moved again, staying just off to the side of the staircase, so it was me who went to him. I felt rather than saw Teller step towards me again but she hesitated this time and I pretended I hadn't noticed.

Maybe it didn't have to be me and Teller against the Sparrow. Maybe it was always me versus him.

"I'm here for my sister," I told him. I was surprised to hear how calm I sounded, and just a bit impressed, too. I even managed to preen a little, puffing my chest out as the Sparrow listened expectantly to what I had to say. He had no reply for me so, taking only the briefest pause to swallow and try to steady my shaky nerves, I added boldly, "I did what you wanted me to do. I brought you the Pigeon."

And then, contrary to any reaction I would've hoped to get from him, the Sparrow started to laugh.

* * *

Author's Note: _I'm so sorry about the delay in between chapters. Just know that it's not going to happen again :) I have the next chapter more than halfway done, and then there's only the epilogue left. Of course, then I have about three other of my Newsies fics I'd like to finish before starting anything new -- and then there's a lovely little plot bunny just begging to be written. I don't know, it's something about the Spring. It just gets the creative juices going, heh._

_Oh, and real quick: Teller's up for the most original OC in the Dimensional Traveller's contest. If you like her as a character -- and I hope you do -- I'd really appreaciate it if you went by the Dimensional Traveller's profile on and vote for Teller. Thanks!_

_-- stress, 03.21.10 _


	14. In Which the Parrot is Speechless

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

--

It wasn't the reaction I'd hoped to get but, well, it was probably just what I deserved.

The Sparrow laughed, a melodic sort of chuckle that didn't belong to someone capable of doing everything he'd done so far. I admit it: the sound sent shivers down my spine and brought a frown to my face. He was laughing at me and I thought I'd been angry _before_. No, _this_ was anger. I'd done what he wanted me to, against my better judgment I'd brought Teller back with me to Midtown, and he was laughing! Why was he laughing?

And then it hit me, a terrible thought that made me go cold; I barely remembered to breathe for a second. The Sparrow didn't start his mad laughter until I told him I brought him the Pigeon.

What if Teller wasn't really the Pigeon after all?

What if, after all this, I still hadn't done enough?

The laughter didn't last long but the sound of it echoed in my ears after it ended. I tried to find Teller in the gloom behind me but the candles weren't enough to show more than just her silhouette; the light in front of us was so strong that it showed that much more. I blinked a couple of times, keeping my back to the Sparrow, hoping my eyes would adjust enough to get a look at her reaction. Straining a bit, I could just make out the way she was hugging herself, her arms folded across her chest.

I guess she didn't like the laughter much, either.

There was another click then and the light in his lamp flared even higher. I turned around just in time to see that same calculating expression hidden behind the meaningless smile that the Sparrow wore so well. His dark eyes were large and bright but unblinking; not even the glare of the flame against the glass lamp fazed him. Silent but still grinning, the Sparrow lifted his hand up and, using the lamp, looked at each of us in turn: first me, then Teller, and Georgie last.

That's when the Sparrow surprised me again. When his eyes looked past me, landing to my right where Georgie was lurking, his entire attitude seemed to change; at the very least he finally lost that mocking smile.

"You, Boy," he said and I had no doubts about who he was talking to now, "what are you doing here?"

Georgie hesitated before answering. "Ya told me to bring her down."

"I don't remember telling you to come down yourself."

There was a strange scratching noise that, after a moment, I realized was the sound of Georgie shuffling his shoes against the floor. "Sorry, Alfie," he said guiltily.

The name hung in the air in a way that made me more nervous than I cared to admit. It was odd. It was what he introduced himself to me at first, back when we met and I had no idea who he really was, but from the moment he changed it over to the Sparrow this morning, it was as if Alfie never existed. For Georgie to use it so simply, so innocently like the way he called Teller Mary, it struck me as very queer; the way the Sparrow straightened up and kept his attention focused only on Georgie was even stranger.

He didn't say anything else. From the glow of his lamp I could see that he'd even gone so far as to frown. It was an unsettling frown. I recognized it, too. It was how the Delancey brothers used to look when one of Race's jokes hit home or whenever they realized they could never keep up with Jack. It was a frown that had a hint of a threat in it. If it wasn't for how much I felt for poor Georgie just then, I might've marveled at how quickly he could change his mood like that.

It was that, I decided later, that helped make the Sparrow such a dangerous character…

"Boy," he said at last, his voice stern and commanding and very different from the high-pitched laughter from only a moment ago, "you're going to go back upstairs. Now."

Georgie nodded and, though I'm pretty sure I heard him mumble something, he obediently started back up the stairs. The next sound we heard was the reluctant but dutiful steps of Georgie's boots slapping against the wooden boards. A creak of the cellar door followed and then he was gone.

Teller waited until he had disappeared all the way up before muttering, "His name ain't Boy, ya know, it's _Georgie_."

The Sparrow whirled on her and Teller did something I never thought anyone could get her to do: she flinched, then took one step back before raising her hand instinctively to her cheek. Her fingers laid lightly on the slight bruise I knew was hidden under all that powder and, suddenly, I understood.

Not much, granted, but enough.

"Oh, Pidge," the Sparrow said sweetly, "you never change. Insolent and obstinate as ever." He turned to look at me again, his heavy-lidded stare eerie in the dancing candlelight. The laughing, joking Sparrow was back; I wasn't sure which of his personalities I disliked more. "And David… you must forgive me. This really is _quite_ the surprise. I never thought I'd see you again."

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach; not even his confirming that Teller was the Pigeon was enough for me to ignore the meaning of his careful words. "I'm here for my sister!" I shot back. "You said!"

He pursed his lips and, with a quick flick of his pointer finger, knocked his hat even further back. I could see his whole face now. Wearing a smirk that was oddly familiar, I had to resist the urge to reach out and smack him. "Yes… well, that's the thing, isn't it. I lied. Sorry."

"_What?_" This time I hoped that I really had heard someone wrong, no matter how nutty it made me. I knew I hadn't, I knew I heard the words exactly how the Sparrow said them, but, well, there's always hope. That and, as much as he deserved it, I knew Mac and the Sparrow's other birdies were still lurking around here somewhere near. I _could_ smack him but it might just be the last thing I did.

"Alf—I mean, Boss," Teller said quickly when the Sparrow's heavy gaze landed back on her, "what do ya mean? What do ya mean ya lied?"

The Sparrow turned to look apologetically at Teller. I didn't buy it and, from the look on her face, I could tell that she didn't either. "I never thought he'd get you to come back, Pidge, and, you see, I've grown quite attached to my lark here."

On the far side of the dark cellar Sarah slumped back against the floor, the light that came alive when she saw me dimming suddenly when her freedom was snatched away again. His words had the power to break her, a power even stronger than a slap or a punch. What happened in the few hours since I was gone? She wasn't broken then—but she was different now. And it wasn't only that she wrapped herself in the blanket she had refused earlier…

I'd had enough. "You can't do this!"

"Of course I can," he said with a small, knowing smile, and though his voice was still quiet, still controlled, there was a touch of nastiness to it, "I'm the Sparrow."

There was a tense pause that followed and I tried my hardest to think of something else to say. Some way to argue and make the Sparrow hold true to his word. But I couldn't, I was stumped and I had no one to blame but myself. My mouth was failing me. I was never good at accepting betrayal, and liars made me so angry and disgusted that I could never think clearly and fight back. Maybe Teller _was _right. Maybe I was more trouble than I was worth—maybe I should've just left this all to Jack and Spot.

And then, so quiet it was almost a whisper, but loud enough for even Sarah to hear from her corner, Teller said softly, "No, you're not."

For just a moment I wondered if she was talking to me before realizing that she couldn't possibly have heard my thoughts. She was talking to the Sparrow, but I took her words like she meant them for me, too. I was here because Sarah needed me. Because I was her brother and that was what brothers do.

The Sparrow was struck by Teller's whisper. Cocking his head so far to the side that his hat nearly fell off, he asked in that slow, deliberate way of his: "What was that?"

I recognized the look on Teller's face—and it was nothing like that strange, almost fearful expression she'd worn only seconds before. It was as if something had switched inside of her. Suddenly she was herself again. She was the girl I'd come to know over these last few days.

She was Teller again.

"You weren't always the Sparrow," she told him, a defiant lilt in her quiet voice. "Grampa gave ya the title when he left, he picked ya to follow him! But he always thought you'd go too far, Alfie, that's why he never really was gone. He's still there, watchin', and I don't blame him. He made you who ya are and this is how ya thank him? Takin' his name in vain, turnin' that old respect into fear?" Teller snorted. "Ya don't deserve to be the Sparrow."

And then, more than before, I thought I really did understand.

The Sparrow… a legend on the street, I'd been told, someone everyone—everyone but me, it seemed—knew about but no one actually knew. But legends don't last forever, and hadn't I been surprised to see that the Sparrow was a kid barely older than me? What was he? Seventeen? Eighteen? Kids like Jack and Spot spoke of him in revere, in awe, as if he'd always kept his birdies out on the streets and his eyes and ears open. Maybe the Sparrow did… but that didn't mean _Alfie_ had.

It made sense if Grampa, too old to play anymore, just passed it on. Instead of leaving him a pocket watch or some money, he left Alfie a name. A name and everything—the power, the reputation—that went along with it. That way there was always the Sparrow, always someone who played the part, and it didn't matter really who. You can't be afraid of a boy called Alfie but the Sparrow kept my knees knocking as I faced him in the gloom of the cellar.

He didn't yell. I thought he might, but he didn't. Instead, he said simply, "But I _am_ the Sparrow."

"You always go too far! Meggie almost died!"

The Sparrow scoffed. "I saved her, then I _avenged_ her."

"And then she left, too…" Teller shook her head sadly. She wasn't so angry anymore. "Ya can't just go and take another girl in her place. Ya gotta let Meggie go, and ya gotta let Sarah go home. I'm here. I came. Let 'em go."

"Oh. I see. Dare I say it? Well played, David. I'm impressed." With his free hand he flipped his hat in my direction. He was grinning again and somehow that was worse than his frown. "I think its fair, don't you? I took your sister, so it's only right that you took mine."

"I never took anything!" I argued heatedly.

And the Sparrow just widened his grin. "No need to get all worked up, David. Like I said, it's fair."

My brain caught up with my ears a moment later and I whirled on Teller. "Sister?" I said again, aware of how much like a parrot I was beginning to sound. Maybe that would be _my _nickname from the Sparrow. The Parrot… it had a nice ring to it. "You're _his_ sister too? _And_ Georgie?"

Any defiance she had left fled as Teller refused to meet my gaze. She kept her eyes on the dirt floor. I felt my stomach drop down to my aching feet.

The Sparrow straightened, seemingly interested. "You didn't tell him?"

When Teller finally glanced up, directing her stare at him, there was absolute murder in her eyes. "Tell him?" she snapped, "Tell him my brother is the Sparrow? The bastard who came along and nabbed his sister all because he got lonely and wanted to show up a couple of hotshot newsies? Him bein' blood of mine?"

"You should be proud."

"It's all I can do to pretend you don't _exist_!"

"But you can't," the Sparrow crowed victoriously before sneering. "You're the Pigeon like she's my lark. All mine, Pidge, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"You're right. I _am _the Pigeon. I'm the best bird you got, I can go anywhere and get everywhere and learn anything. And I tell you because you're the Sparrow now, you're the boss. But that's the thing with bein' the best bird—I know a lot, and I'm your sister, too, as much as I hate that. I know about _you_," she said, the threat plain and clear, "and who knows who I could tell." She paused and, in that instant, the roles were reversed. He was the one bowing under the weight of her words, he was the one who looked taken aback. And then she had one last remark: "I'm Teller, after all. It's what I do."

I have to say, he recovered nicely. Unfortunately.

He laughed again, a forced laugh that sounded harsher than before. "You're Teller because I let you be. You're the Pigeon because I wanted you to be. Make your empty threats if they make you feel important, it won't worry me. Because, my sister, I know all there is about you." The Sparrow paused and, bowing his head in my direction, he said, "And there's quite a bit I could tell certain others, too."

"Let her go, Alfie."

"No, Pidge, I don't think I will."

"I've told ya time and time before," she said hotly, making sure to step back and out of his reach. It was odd to see her so wary, so careful but, then again, the Sparrow was not only her leader but her brother too. Her words had dazzled him but the spell was broken. Alfie was livid; that much was obvious even if he was trying to act as if he was nothing less than calm. And, if there was anyone who knew what the Sparrow was really capable, it was her. But, still, she didn't stop. With a royal shake of her head, she said, "It's Teller."

He puffed out his chest. "And _I'm _the Sparrow."

"No, you're not. You're Alfie Wilkins—"

At the sound of his name, his real name, the Sparrow drew his breath in sharply. There was warning written in every line of his face as he stared Teller down. Folding his hand into a fist, he pointed one finger at her. She barely flinched this time. "You shut your mouth, Pidge," he hissed.

I was wrong before when I thought that I understood just why everyone—including Teller—was afraid of him. At that moment, the way his jaw clenched angrily, the way he advanced so predatorily on her… I've never seen anything so intimidating in my life—and I saw Spot Conlon stare down a gang, a copper and a crooked judge. Here was a young man who didn't care what he had to do or who he had to hurt to get his way. And there was Teller, standing between him and his way. I could feel my heart as it thudded wildly against my chest, sounding like the beat out of one of Medda's shows. What was he going to do now?

Why wasn't I doing anything to stop him?

But then I glanced at Teller and realized that, though her hands were also folded, folded so tightly in her skirt that her knuckles were stark white, and she was visibly shaking under the weight of the Sparrow's untapped fury, she wasn't backing down. She wasn't listening to his threats. She was just as stubborn as he was.

Gritting her teeth, she kept on talking.

"—from Midtown—"

"Pidge…"

"—the no good first son of a seamstress and—"

"Goddamn it, Mary! Shut up!"

Teller stopped at the sound of the Sparrow's venomous shout. Like the use of his name had done to him, being called Mary brought Teller down. But she wasn't out. Shaking her head sadly, her long braid swaying like a pendulum down her back, she eyed her brother. "Mama would be rollin' over in her grave to hear all you've done."

For the first time since I met him, the Sparrow actually looked rattled. Really rattled, not like he was just pretending. His eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropped enough to reveal the points of his teeth. It was as if Teller had reached out and slapped him. He blinked once, and pursed his lips together. Teller had finally hit home with her words. The Sparrow nodded, a short jerky motion, but a nod nevertheless.

He exhaled. "Fine. You win. I'll let her go."

I found my voice at last. "What?" I was acting the part of a parrot again but I couldn't be bothered to say anything else. That was the last thing I expected to hear him say.

The Sparrow's eyes were trained absolutely on Teller but, surprising me again, he actually answered me. In that same calm, deliberate way, he said, "I'm letting my lark fly free. Take your sister, David, and just go. Leave. I won't stop you, and neither will my birdies. But," he added, a small, smirking sort of smile coming to his face as if he'd been waiting for this, "_my_ sister will stay here with me. What do you say, Teller? Do we have a deal?"

Teller snorted. "You haven't cared a lick about me in a long while, Alfie. Why the change of heart?"

"You're trying to be brave," the Sparrow noted, almost lazily, and definitely nowhere near incensed as he had been, "but I know you better than that. Besides, you have nothing to fear from me if you stay. The death card doesn't influence me."

I didn't understand what the Sparrow meant by that but by the short, stifled gasp that came from Teller, it was obvious that she did. A touch suspiciously, she asked, "How did—"

The newfound glee in the Sparrow's voice was just as obvious as he interrupted her. "Let's just say a little birdie told me."

"If it wasn't me, who was it?"

"What does it matter? My Pidge was missing. I was worried, I had to get you back."

Teller nodded knowingly. "And that's why you sent David?"

I'd been wondering when I would be dragged into his by name again. I listened intently but, no surprise, the Sparrow decided not to answer her question. Which was okay, really, because I didn't know what to say myself.

And then Teller chimed in again. "Do you know," she said, after a moment's silence had passed, "I _was _afraid to come back again."

"I do know that, so far, you haven't answered my question."

"I was," Teller continued, as if he hadn't spoken up at all, "I even told Meggie I was too frightened to return. I kept my secrets longer than was fair 'cause I was a scared of ya, Alfie. Can ya imagine? Me, bein' frightened of my brother. But I don't think it was you, Alfie, I think it was really the Sparrow that got me worried. And I shouldn't be so scared of somethin' that don't really exist. So, yeah, ya got yourself a deal. I'll stay, so long as ya let David and his sister go. I'll stay."

"Then it's done," announced the Sparrow. He waved one hand royally at the place where Sarah still sat silently on the floor. "You can go, my pet, but remember your promises if you want me to remember mine."

"No."

The Sparrow turned back to look at Teller. "What was that?"

"No promises. No more games, Alfie. I told ya I'd stay. I'll go back to bein' your damn Pigeon, but she goes. You leave Sarah alone, hell, you leave Meggie alone, and I'll stay. I've flown before, I can do it again."

He thought about her threat for a moment and then nodded. Then he said just one word, "Go", before his gas lamp clicked and his flame died. Even though my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the loss of his bright light was too much. The Sparrow simply slipped back into the shadows.

And, too late, I finally understood all that had happened. "Teller, no—"

She cut me off with a shake of her head and a quick, "No, it's fine. Really. Hey, I never should've tried to leave the roost in the first place." Laughing lowly under her breath, it was a mocking echo of the Sparrow's earlier joyous laughter. "It's okay," she said again, louder this time, like she was trying to convince herself as well as me. "The Pigeon for Sarah, you knew that's what he wanted."

"Yes, but—"

"No buts," Teller cut in firmly. "It's okay. He's my brother."

Because there wasn't anything else I could do, I looked from Teller's resigned stance to Sarah, huddled against the corner wall as if leery that the Sparrow would snatch her freedom away from her again, to the way a man called Alfie seemed to lord over the two girls. Even though I couldn't see him I knew he was still there, probably wearing that same smarmy grin under his heavy-lidded stare.

I really did get it. Rachel Harpen was right, wasn't she? She'd been right since we met in that alleyway just out of Tibby's but me, educated by books and lessons and really nothing at all, I was too foolish to notice what had been under my nose.

In the end, everything came down to family—and it wasn't only just mine.

* * *

Author's Note: _Two years in the making, and David's four day quest is all but over. Epilogue coming up soon! _

_-- stress, 04.21.10_


	15. In Which the Story is Over

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

x--x

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

x--x

It was Friday afternoon following lessons, one week to the day Sarah went missing and I set out to find her. Things were back to normal—or, I allowed, as close to normal as they could ever be after such a strange adventure. My sister was back home at last, back where she belonged and, sometimes, it was almost as if she never went missing for those four days. It was almost a little bit funny, too. She'd been back for four days now and it seemed like hardly any time at all. But when she was gone? It felt more like four years.

Sarah refused to talk about it. When we first escaped from the Sparrow—escaped or set free, it made no difference especially since I'd been forced to leave Teller behind—she shed a few tears, angry and bitter tears, but they hadn't lasted long. Sarah was strong, far braver than I ever gave her credit for. By the time we left Midtown behind us and home wasn't too far away, she was even muttering how much she would've liked to strike the Sparrow before we fled. And this time, unlike what happened with Morris Delancey in that alley, I don't doubt she would've hit him.

That was the last time she spoke of the Sparrow… as far as I know, anyway. She refused to talk about how he found her in the first place, how he trapped her in the basement of the Midtown Lodging House, how she was treated while he stubbornly kept her imprisoned. After a couple of questions I understood she would never tell and, in the last few days, I passed the message on to others to leave her alone, not to badger her. Sarah was home. That was good enough for me.

Even if I _did _wonder and worry about what happened to Teller after I left her…

I thought I knew her, and maybe I did. No words would've swayed her to come with me and it wasn't likely the Sparrow—her _brother_—would've let her leave, either. So Teller gave herself up for Sarah, she stayed behind while we left and now, four days later, I still wondered if there was more I could've done.

I kept those thoughts to myself. Sarah was safe and, thank goodness, Mama and Papa believed her when she repeated the same lies I told them before. I didn't lie to Les; under the cover of night, I told him as much about my adventure as I dared. Now he looked at me almost the same way he looked at Jack.

And Jack… well, after the success in Brooklyn and the small defeat over the Sparrow in Midtown, he had quickly changed back to his old, familiar cocky self. The bags under his eyes faded, his smirk was at home on his face and he spent more time around with me and my family lately than he did anywhere else. I had to say: it was getting pretty crowded around the dinner table these days. And Jack wasn't the only one joining us most nights…

It was on that Friday, after lessons had finished and I'd completed my week's worth of lines for missing school on Monday, that I found myself in Jack's company once again. It was late afternoon, not quite time for the circulation bell to start ringing for the evening paper, and the two of us were standing quietly on the rooftop of my apartment building, overlooking the bustling city below as a whole. We'd already gone over my part of the story and Jack told me everything that happened in Brooklyn after me and Teller left. There wasn't much left to say.

For one of the first times since Monday we were alone. I'd finally shaken Les, leaving him to play marbles with Boots and Snipeshooter, Mama was in the kitchen, preparing supper, Papa was at the factory and Sarah was sitting at the table with Spot. I had to bite back a small grin as I thought of Spot and Sarah sharing the small kitchen with Mama. My parents had been so relieved when Jack and Sarah's summer fling last summer was just that—and then their little girl ended up with the most feared newsie in New York.

And there was no doubt about that, either. Not anymore. After the way Spot and Jack—with reluctant help from Race, who was now laid up on Duane Street with some busted fingers and his wounded pride—led Spot's boys against Scotch O'Reilly's thugs, and Scotch gave up when he realized the Sparrow wasn't coming to back him up, Spot redoubled his claim to Brooklyn. It was his again. Scotch slunk out of town, Jack had said with a satisfied smirk, and Spot felt so confident now that he'd spent the last few evenings in Manhattan, keeping a close eye on Sarah in case the Sparrow tried anything funny again.

Mama and Papa tolerated Jack for mine and Les's sake but Spot… well, they were getting used to him. Sarah, it seemed, had learned her lesson when it came to hiding things. In exchange for keeping the even bigger secret of what really happened to her from them, Sarah decided it was time to clean about her relationship with Spot. I was proud of her that she did that but, maybe if we'd known all along, I thought, maybe something like that could've been prevented…

Then again, thinking of the Sparrow, I had to admit that was unlikely—I was still kind of surprised he actually let us leave without sending his birdies after us—but there was no denying that Spot made her happy. One look at the grin she sported whenever he was near and I could almost forget the haunted look from the Sparrow's cellar prison. It felt good to see her so happy.

I chanced a real smile then, one that caught Jack's eye.

"What ya smilin' for?" he asked. "Got somethin' on your mind, Dave?"

His voice jerked me out of my thoughts. I shook my head slowly. "I was just thinking about Sarah and Spot," I told him honestly.

"Oh," he said after a moment, sounding wistful, "yeah."

Jack was standing next to me, his back to the edge of the rooftop's wall, his elbows propped up on the top ledge. While I was facing out, looking at the city down below, he had his back up, watching the laundry on the line waft to and fro in the slight breeze.

I turned my head to my right, catching a glimpse of Jack's face without trying to look too curious. I didn't know what to make of Jack. Ever since I returned with Sarah he'd been more like the Jack from last summer—including the fact that he was almost around as much as Spot now.

I had to ask. "Do you miss her?"

At first I wasn't sure if he understood or even heard me. He stood there, staring across the rooftop, his easygoing smirk dipping into a thoughtful thrown. Then he exhaled and I knew he'd been thinking about my question.

"It's not like I don't still see her or I didn't before," he said at last, taking his time and tapping his fingers against the ledge, "but I suppose Spot's better for her, if that's what ya mean. Better than was and damn better than the Sparrow thought he'd be."

"You're right," I agreed.

"What about you? You miss the Pigeon?"

Four days. It had been just as long as the few days we spent together but still… it felt like something was missing. Maybe because I felt guilty, maybe I just worried about how the Sparrow was treating her, maybe it was something else… I didn't know. But I _did _know that maybe Jack was right. "I guess," I said, mumbling more to myself than to him.

And then I realized something: Jack hadn't called her Teller.

He called her the Pigeon.

Working hard not to lose my composure, I kept my head straight, watching Mr. Wilson roll his apple cart by down below. "So you know?"

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Jack nodding. His familiar smirk—not unlike Spot's, or even the Sparrow's—was tugging at his lips. "I kinda figured, it wasn't that hard to see. Besides, when you went off after Georgie, I stopped back at Bottle Alley before I headed off to Brooklyn. Remember that girl?"

I had a vision of a slim girl with a mane of wild brown hair, curls hidden underneath a kerchief, and a stern expression that froze you where you stood. "The one who answered the door?"

"Her name's Jessa." There was a satisfied tone to his voice all of a sudden. "I'm goin' to bring her down to catch one of Medda's shows tomorrow night."

"I didn't get the impression she liked you very much."

Jack shrugged but he didn't lose his smirk. "Her bark was worse than her bite. All it took were a coupla words for her to open the door and a few more before I heard everything else I needed to hear."

"Like what?"

"Like who the Pigeon really was. She knew that was another name o' Teller's. And," Jack said, sounding even more pleased, more smug, "guess who she heard it from?"

I couldn't even begin to guess. "Who?"

"_Rosamund._"

My nose wrinkled in distaste. Rosamund was very pretty girl with a very ugly outlook. I don't think I would ever forget the way she pitied me just because I was Jewish, or the way she judged Sarah on her appearance. "Rosamund? Are you sure?"

From the humor that found its way to his voice I could tell that it amused Jack to finally have a reason to justify his dislike of Rosamund. With her blonde hair and big blue eyes, I would've thought he'd go for her before the factory girl, Jessa. Then again, Sarah was a brunette, too…

I gave my head a quick shake. Now wasn't the time to think about what Jack looked for in a girl—especially since one of them was my sister; it was time to focus on what he was actually telling me. "And she knew Teller was the Pigeon?"

"Yeah, and that ain't all she spilled to Jessa. So I wouldn't be worried about Teller. The Sparrow ain't a favorite o' mine but I don't think he'd do anythin' to hurt his sister. From what I hear he's as protective of her as you are of Sarah. I mean, I knew the Sparrow had a sister he kept under his wing… I just never expected her to be _Teller_."

Ha. Me, neither… and, wait—how did Jack know that I was worried? Was it that obvious? I hadn't said a word about Teller, the Pigeon or just how kind of nervous I was over her fate. Jack… I shook my head again. I didn't give him enough credit. Before this week it had been awhile since I saw him last but, still. I guess he knew me well enough.

Jack cleared his throat then, drawing my attention back to him. "Ya know somethin', Davey? Speak of the devil," he said, crossing himself absently, "and the devil just may come callin'."

I didn't understand but when Jack pointed his finger in front of him and I turned around, suddenly I knew exactly what he was talking about. On the other side of the rooftop, just where the fire escape led to the roof's edge, there stood Teller. Her hair was in its familiar braid, her lips were a vivid red and there wasn't nearly as much powder on her face as last time; there was no sign of the nasty bruise on her cheek either. Her hands were clasped in front of her. Her expression was unreadable.

"What is she doing here?" I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Teller… in one piece… on _my_ rooftop.

"Don't know," answered Jack with a cheeky grin and a hearty slap on my shoulder, "but I know where I'm goin'."

"Jack!"

He laughed. "Sorry, Dave. You're on your own for this one."

And, just like that, he left. His shoulders shaking as he chuckled to himself, Jack ducked under the clothesline, snagged a tomato and used that hand to wave at Teller before passing her by to get to the fire escape. Then he was gone, leaving me and Teller alone.

I could've killed him… except, I admit, I was a little curious to see what she was doing there.

Okay, a _lot_ curious.

Teller pointedly stayed where she was and I realized that it was up to me to go to her for a change. I moved slowly, approaching the laundry line myself, careful not to walk into any of the drying trousers or the freshly laundered shirts. I was reminded of the alley behind the Bowery Theatre and the dirty, damp sheet that slapped in the face the last time I walked past a clothesline. Maybe, I thought, maybe it was a good idea that Teller stayed on the opposite side of the roof as I moved toward her. I swear, sometimes when I breathe real deep, I could still smell the stink and the sweat from that sheet.

She was playing with the folds of her skirt when I reached her; if I didn't know any better, I might've thought it was a nervous gesture. When I was only a few feet away she lowered her gaze so that I could barely see her face. "David," she greeted.

"Hello, Teller."

Teller coughed, covered her mouth with her hand and then wiped her palms against her skirt. She still kept her eyes on the floor. "So…"

"So?"

"So, I'm here. I wanted to come talk to you."

"Really?" My eyebrow gave a small twitch, almost as if it wanted to rise in surprise. I had to work to keep my expression neutral. "What did you want to talk about?" She didn't say anything, so I did. "You're the Pigeon."

Teller nodded.

"And the Sparrow is your brother?"

"Yeah."

"So let me make sure I understand. You went up against your brother to help me find my sister?"

Teller dared a glance up. "Looks that way, don't it?"

"Then what else is there to talk about?" I admit it: after everything that happened, everything she lied about and everything she did, I could never really figure if Teller was trustworthy or not. There was so much she did lie about or kept to herself and I felt betrayed by most of what she did. But, then again, I understood why she did what she did and, in the end, didn't she redeem herself by giving herself up for Sarah's freedom?

Her fingers fiddled absently with the material of her skirt, her eyes watching her fingers curiously. She hadn't met my eyes yet and she didn't as she backed away, back to the fire escape. For one fleeting moment I was afraid my words had sent her away before remembering that this was Teller. If something I said upset her, running away would be the last thing she did. I would certainly get an earful first.

Teller peered over the edge, shielding her eyes as she searched the ground below. She kept her back to me. I don't know what she was looking for, or if she found it, because, all of a sudden, she let go of her skirt, lifted her head assuredly and, arms folded before her, she walked over to me again. She walked past me, closer to the center of the rooftop.

I hadn't moved.

Shaking her head royally, Teller said, "Let me tell ya why I came. I… I wanted to say I'm sorry. I've been thinkin' about it and, ya know, maybe if I'd told ya sooner, maybe you, Sarah, everyone might've not gone through all of that just 'cause my brother can be… well, an ass."

That was the last thing I thought she was going to say; she took me by complete surprise. I didn't know what to say back—and then I realized the reason why was because I didn't really want an apology. I just wanted the truth and I got that, and I wanted to make sure Teller was all right. I didn't deserve an apology, either. If anything, I should've been the one apologizing to her! Wasn't I the one who expected help from a stranger, never thanking her, always suspecting her? Wasn't I the one who let her trade herself for Sarah when the idea of staying behind with the Sparrow was the only thing I had seen frighten her?

The guilt I'd been battling ever since I led Sarah out of Midtown flared up. Mumbling, I told her, "You don't have to apologize to me, Teller, I should be the one saying sorry. I—"

She cut me off by raising her right hand. "I got an idea. Why don't we shake on it and we're both of the hook, eh?" She held her hand out. "Do ya want to spit first? I will if you will."

"That's all right," I said, sticking my hand out so we could shake. To be honest, I'd always found the newsies custom of spitshaking a little disgusting.

She shook my hand then, the warmth—and slight stickiness—from her palm managing to make most of the guilt melt away. I grinned and Teller smirked. It seemed like this was a weight off her shoulders, too.

Without remorse to keep me occupied, a sudden rush of curiosity washed over me. As soon as I had my hand back I asked, "What are you doing here anyway? How did you get out? The Sparrow… he let you go too?"

At first I didn't think she was going to answer me, that maybe I asked too much too soon, but then Teller opened her mouth. "He's my brother," she said, losing some of her good humor from only a moment ago. "I hate him and I love him and sometimes I wish he was the Alfie he was when we were kids, when Mama was still alive, but he isn't… but he's still my brother. I know him. I gave him a coupla days to cool down and then I asked him to let me out. I had to promise to come back, to be the Pigeon again, but he let me go." She paused, dropping her eyes so that she was looking at the floor. Shrugging, she sighed. "He asked me to make sure you don't tell no one else that I was." Then she scoffed, lifting her head so that I could see the bitter frown. "See, I say ask but… yeah."

I pretended that I didn't notice the bitterness. "Was what?"

"The Pigeon."

"Oh… oh, of course. You have my word," I promised, hoping it would make her less annoyed, "I'm not like Rosamund, I won't tell."

It didn't work. Teller's face went dark at the name, her blue eyes stormy. "Rosamund… what a nitwit!"

She was looking pretty scary then and I didn't blame her—if you ask me, Rosamund _was_ a true nitwit—but I felt like it was my fault for bringing her up. Quickly changing the subject, I asked her something that I'd been wondering about. "Why does he call you the Pigeon?"

Meggie was the Songbird because of her voice, Sarah was the Lark because of her cage and I never figured out why Alfie was the Sparrow… but maybe, since he started it, there didn't have to be a reason. And I wondered: was that the same for Teller and the nickname the Sparrow gave her?

My question certainly drew Teller's attention away from Rosamund. "Ya mean ya don't know?"

She sounded like the Teller I'd come to know and, once again, I was the one out of the loop. That hadn't been my intention. "No," I said, trying not to mirror her earlier frown, "I don't."

"And I thought you was smart," she teased. Her dark eyes weren't so dark anymore. "It was his idea. Ya know, Pigeon? Stool Pigeon?"

I understood. "A snitch," I offered.

"Yeah. A snitch… or a teller. I've told ya all along, Dave. It's what I do."

That made sense and maybe she was right, maybe it was something I should've figured out. But I didn't and, with the hundred different things there'd been to worry and think about when I got home—was Sarah okay? Did Mama and Papa believe her story? My story? Did Brooklyn fall? Was Teller hurt?—it never dawned on me to work it out on my own.

Besides, apologies out of the way, what good was Teller's unexpected visit if I couldn't at least get some solid answers out of her? I'd said it all along: I didn't think of myself as a curious guy, but if there's an answer out there somewhere, I wanted to have it.

That thought in my mind, I hesitated for just a second before blurting out: "There's something else I wanted to ask you."

"Funny how ya never struck me as such a curious guy, Dave, but there ya are. Question after question after question!"

It was like she was inside my head again; at least her tone was teasing over serious. Curiosity killed the cat, but this cat had the Pigeon cornered. And I _was_ curious about so much. I'd had time to think about everything that happened to me over those four days and this was one thing that I dwelled on the most over everything else—especially now that I knew the truth about who she was, I really wanted to know how she got involved in the first place.

So, ignoring her comment, I said, "When we first met, when you met me on Madison Avenue, you said that Rachel Harpen sent you. Was that true?"

Now Teller's face grew serious. "And ya want the truth?" There must've been something in the way I looked over at her because she laughed. "Okay, the truth it is then. No, that ain't true."

"Then how did—"

"I got a look at the paper, same as Rachel. And if you're lookin' for honesty, it wasn't pure dumb luck I was in that diner, either. Alfie… the Sparrow… he decided it was time to make his move, grab your sister just as Scotch O'Reilly was gettin' ready to go for Brooklyn. Which, ya gotta admit, was perfect timin'."

She paused, I guess looking to see if I agreed with her—and secretly I did. It _had_ been a clever move, trying to take Sarah just when Spot was the most vulnerable, the most occupied, and make it appear like he was helping Scotch while he was actually being selfish and greedy. And that's all the Sparrow was: a big bully who had the followers and the might to back up his words and his reckless actions.

But I wasn't about to Teller that so I said nothing.

She rubbed her neck, not quite meeting my eye again. It was awkward, Teller suddenly acting almost ashamed she got caught admiring her brother's underhanded tactics. "Um, yeah, but that was when he did it. He sent Georgie with the Sparrow's sign to your sister, then sent Rooster to Brooklyn—"

I couldn't help it. The sound of yet another bird name made me interrupt. "Who?"

"You saw him, Dave. The guy I met outside of that place just on the other side of the Bridge? The one with the bratwurst?"

I remembered. But still… "Rooster?"

"Rooster, 'cause all he ever does is spit crow," Teller explained. "The Sparrow knew Sarah would be sure to contact Kelly or Conlon after she got his sign. Since he planned on goin' after her in Manhattan he wanted me here. Number one bird, heh, that's me." Despite the boasting words, she didn't look proud at all.

"What about the rock?" I asked, going back to my earlier question. If Teller was the bird stationed in Manhattan, did she… I shook my head. "Someone threw a rock at me and Rachel."

The uncomfortable shame was even more noticeable now. "That was me, too. Sorry. The Sparrow gave me one of his painted rocks in case I needed it and I wanted ya to know who you was up against. I'm a good shot, though. If I wanted ya hit, ya would've been hit."

My worst suspicions had been confirmed. "So you knew? You knew all along?"

"Yeah, I knew. At least, I knew as much as the Sparrow wanted me to know which ain't really a lot… but I knew what I was doin' when I saw ya down at Tibby's. It was after that, after I talked to ya in Midtown, that's when I had no clue what I was doin'." She paused again, and then she asked hesitantly, "Should I say I'm sorry again? Just hearin' myself tell ya what happened… I feel like I owe ya. You're a good guy, Dave, and I do like you."

I'd been wondering when the familiar rush of blood to my cheeks would start. Feeling flushed and embarrassed and both cursing Jack and thanking him for his quick exit, I tried to focus on something—anything—else other than the heavy silence that hung overhead. That wasn't the first time she said something like that but this time… this time I could almost believe she _meant_ it.

Clearing my throat if only to stall for a moment, I said softly, "You don't owe me. Actually," I added, in a sudden burst of inspiration, "I think I still owe you." I reached into my pocket and, after fishing around for a moment, pulled something out. I held it towards to Teller, offering it to her. "Here."

She took it and let it settle in the palm of her hand. It was a tarnished coin: it was a nickel. She quirked her eyebrow at me. "What's this for?"

I nodded at her. "Now we're even."

A familiar half-smile curved her lips and Teller let out a small laugh. "I like you, Dave," she said again, tucking the coin in the front pocket of her skirt, "I really do."

Teller laughed and I joined her and it was all I could do. Just then, standing atop the roof to my apartment building, standing next to Teller as I oversaw all of New York, I felt all—_most—_of my worries melt away. Why not believe her? If it was a lie, at least it was a nice one.

Taking heart in the fact I was laughing instead of frowning, Teller moved closer to me than she had dared move in awhile and, very lightly, laid her hand on my arm. And, in that moment, there were three things I was absolutely sure of:

Sarah was safe.

The Sparrow was no longer a threat to me or my family.

And, after all we'd been through, I felt I could finally trust Teller at last.

Well, I allowed, most likely...

* * *

Author's Note: _I tried my best to tie up any loose endings -- including the phantom nickel all the way from The Sparrow, part one -- so I hope the story ended up playing out the way I imagined it in my head. From Teller's appearance in the first story to Rosamund's in the second (and the beginning of this one) to Spot getting to keep Brooklyn out of Scotch's grubby hands... it may have only been 4 -- well, 8 -- days in David's life but it definitely took my two years to tell it. It's said to have to say goodbye to this world, these characters but... you never know what the future might bring, eh?_

-- stress, 05.16.10


	16. Or is it?

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

x--x

**The Pigeon**

_He thought it was all about his sister, but he was wrong.  
When an uprising in Brooklyn begins, and his new friendship is tinged with betrayal,  
David realizes that there has always been more at stake._

x--x

The rock was heavy in his hand, the paint still wet. He kept the brush trapped between two fingers, fidgeting and twitching it, splashing small drops of white paint against his dusty trousers. Having traded his hat for a faded old newsboy cap, Alfie slung it low as he tilted his head back. Squinting just a bit, he searched above for a flash of white, the flowing of a long, black skirt.

Ah, he thought, there she is.

The Pigeon—Teller—_Mary _was his best bird, his number one spy. Her loyalty might waver from time to time, but she always returned. Blood was thicker than water, and he knew how to exploit his sister's familial obligations to make sure she did exactly what he wanted her to. And, just then, what he wanted her to do was stall David Jacobs long enough for him to leave his sign behind.

From a distance he had watched as the Pigeon carefully climbed up the fire escape, not stopping until she reached the top. He knew she knew he was down there, and how else except he'd given her this address in the first place; every now and then she would glance over her shoulder as she went hand over hand on the topmost ladder, but Alfie nodded and silently urged her on. Pidge wanted back on his good side… this was the least she could do.

She was on the rooftop of the Jacobs family's tenement now, standing close to the edge as she faced someone across the way. It had to be David, he allowed, especially since he'd only just seen Jack Kelly slinking down the fire escape, pausing hesitantly as passed by the window Alfie knew to be his Lark's. Alfie made sure to keep his head down when Jack passed, instantly blending in to his surroundings. With his old cap and a pair of dusty trousers, he was just another newsboy selling his wares. To make it more convincing, he had even thought to bring a stack of papers with him; they currently sat unneeded at his feet. After all, he had fooled plenty others—he'd fooled David only days before—with this same exact get-up.

As he expected, Jack passed him by without a second look. No one ever stopped to look at a newsie—not even a real newsie.

Alfie tossed the rock absently in the air, catching it with a soft _thwack_ against his palm before lifting it back up again. He was careful not to smudge the white dots and lines that made up his simple yet infamous sign. Drawing it on paper would've been foolhardy with the quick wind that was blowing and rocks had always served him well in the past. And he could've asked anyone—Georgie, Rooster, Rosamund… well, maybe not her—to leave the rock where Sarah would find it but he hadn't. Like the time he went after those thugs in the Bronx for daring even to go near the Songbird, this was just something he had to do himself.

He'd reluctantly let Sarah go, he'd let her fly from her nest, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to hold her to her promise. Sure, he'd had his fun with her dopey brother, sending David after Alfie's sister when he knew damn well that the Pigeon would come back before long. And maybe it was a little reckless trusting Rosamund with any information when he also knew she was only after the notoriety of being his girl. Then again, he never would've thought being ditched by the Sparrow and the head of the Manhattan newsies for a girl like Sarah Jacobs would have made her lose her silly head like that and spill.

And that, he decided, was exactly why he pursued Sarah over a tart like Rosamund. She was feisty when he wanted her to be and kind to others—even if she hadn't shown much kindness to him just yet. And, for her sake, he hoped she was good at keeping her word.

Because, no matter how apart they were, he hadn't been joking when he said that she still belonged to him. That the last person he wanted her to see was Spot Conlon.

Spot Conlon was up there with his Lark right now.

The Sparrow scowled. Either the newsies forgot about his birdies or they severely underestimated their numbers and abilities because it was only too obvious they thought it was all over. But it wasn't. Oh, Scotch was gone and he'd been forced into allowing Sarah to leave his roost, but that didn't mean he was done. While it would've been nice to see Brooklyn fall, he wasn't willing to sacrifice the girl to bring Conlon down.

When he had her back in his clutches, that would be all it took to knock the great Spot Conlon to his knees.

Without realizing he had done it, Alfie gripped the rock in his palm so tightly that the uneven edges were biting into his skin. There was pain but it barely felt it; instead, never once releasing his hold, his resolve strengthened. It was risky, daring to come all the way to the Lower East Side just to leave a message, but being risky was his second nature. Without a little risk, would a down on his luck boy called Alfie Wilkins ever convince the last Sparrow, Aidan "Grampa" Shaunassey, to pass the title along?

His eyes had never left the rooftop, no matter how much they longed to stray to Sarah's window. He would deal with her betrayal and Spot Conlon's continued presence in her life at a later time. For now, he was only there to place down his sign. He barely blinked, watching and waiting for Teller to reappear at the edge.

And then she did. He could see her looking for him, shielding her eyes as she gazed downward, purposely keeping her back to whoever was up on the roof with her. Alfie knew when she spied him because, all too quickly but entirely unmistakable, Teller used her hand to wave him forward.

It was time.

Jack was gone, vanished in the mid-afternoon crowds. Teller, as her gesture revealed, was occupying David, keeping him from watching anyone approach. Sarah had no idea he was there at all.

Without any hesitation, and only eager to show them all who they were really dealing with—the Sparrow, the true king of the New York streets—Alfie started to climb the fire escape. He would climb the flights that led to the Jacobs' apartment, the ones that deposited him just outside his Lark's window. He would leave the rock, the rock with his sign painted brazenly on the flat side, and all of them—Sarah, Conlon, Kelly, David...—they would all know that it wasn't over until he said so.

His Songbird was forever flown. He wasn't about to let his Lark get away that easily.

* * *

_fin._

* * *

Author's Note: _See, now, this was always the way I intended to end the story. If after all the mentions, the myths, the lore, the stories about the Sparrow... if I let him let Sarah leave after all that trouble, and then have him be okay with it... well, that's not the Sparrow we've all come to know. Still, this is the end. I like how it leaves Teller's loyalty as ambiguous as ever, and it brings the story full circle (with Sarah getting the Sparrow's sign again, but this time on her windowsill like she was afraid of in the first ever chapter). I wonder what would happen -- what do you think happened next?_

_I do also want to take the time to thank anyone who ever read any of this trilogy, and especially to those who took the time to leave a comment or two about what they thought. When I started this series, I had an image of an underground figure that was almost like a phantom. I don't know exactly who the story evolved to become what it did but, after all that time and effort, I think it had some of my most favorite characters -- both original incarnations and canon interpretations -- that I've ever done before. I'm sorry to see this saga end, but now that leaves me open to start another epic WIP. Keep an eye out for that soon!_

_-- stress, 05.20.10_


End file.
